


Deliverance On The West Coast

by tatou



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Romantic Friendship, human!Bunny, some non con later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:17:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They met through Jack being a persistent little shit, and that's how they're still together now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a beginning

They’re sitting in a corner café somewhere deep in California.

 

It’s hot as hell out, and Aster’s stirring his iced tea, either ignoring or oblivious to the fact that the raspberry flavoring’s left his lips a dark shade of pink and that Jack’s ogling it. The residue of melted ice on those lips shines bright in the sun.

 

Seagulls shriek and swoop past the passerby outside, dropping to the sidewalk and clicking their beaks noiselessly. The sun sits comfortably in the sky, beaming down at the creations before it.

 

“We could go to Antartica.” Jack says, and Aster rolls his eyes.

 

“Don’t be an idiot, mate. I wouldn’t last there for five seconds.”

 

“Just a suggestion.” Jack laughs, and bites into his half of the sandwich they ordered. They’re planning a summer trip together, maybe somewhere outside the U.S.

 

Aster leans back in his seat, staring outside at the throngs of people that rush by, the surfers and students and families and employees. California in the summer is lot of yellows and greens, blues and whites and tans if you’re by the beaches. He knows Aster’s focus is on the colors amongst the crowds and houses, knows he’s tracing every line of broken brick and bare sandy feet in his mind. The sun shines through the Australian’s dark hair and highlights the lighter browns it consists of. It flicks past his emerald irises, sharpening them to a clear, clear green that makes Jack’s heart stop.

 

“What are you lookin’ at?” Aster asks, and Jack jumps slightly; he’d gotten so engrossed in observing his friend that he hadn’t noticed Aster had turned back to the table for a sip at his tea.

 

“You. What else?” He says, trying to play off his embarrassment with a cocky grin.

 

Aster puts down the plastic cup, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “You’re a strange bloke, Jack.” He says, and Jack feels his heart sink a little when he turns back to the window. He wants Aster to be looking at  _him_.

 

But Aster’s not interested, as far as Jack can tell. He’s remained blissfully ignorant to every one of Jack’s advances, never touching him more than is necessary or saying more than he’s planned out. Sure, they’re good friends and they have great times together, but their friendship started out rocky and Jack’s fairly certain that’s why. Maybe Aster still resents him.

 

He finishes off the sandwich-half and settles back into the booth, bringing his feet up onto the seat to rest his elbows on his knees.

 

“I can’t wait to leave.”

 

For a moment Aster doesn’t say anything, only stares out the window.

 

“Won’t you miss it, though?” He asks.

 

Jack tugs at some frayed threads on his jeans. “Well, yeah. But I feel like it’s time to go somewhere new, y’know? Time to be somewhere else.”

 

Aster turns to smile at him. “I reckon. Easier for you, since you’re not studyin’ and all.”

 

“You know it’s not for me, Bunny.” Jack says, using Aster’s last name as quiet revenge for bringing up his studies. He dropped out his second semester in sophomore year, and he hasn’t gotten any flak from it since.

 

A sun-kissed hand closes over his, brushing the denim of his jeans softly with a large thumb. He looks up at Aster, who’s leaning halfway over the table. His eyes are soft and apologetic.

 

“Hey, mate.” He says. “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

Jack smiles, puts a daring hand on top of Aster’s and squeezes it forgivingly. “It’s okay, man.” He says.

 

They stay like that for a few moments before Aster clears his throat and pushes out of the booth, grabbing up his bag as he goes. He flips a couple of bills from his pocket and Jack watches, mesmerized at the control and deftness that those talented fingers possess. Tossing them onto the table, he looks at Jack, grinning again.

 

“You comin’, or what?”

 


	2. mulling over failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows Aster has an affinity for any type of alcoholic drink. It seems something Jack should be worried of, but for now it seems a harmless enough trait.

They leave the coffee shop, merging briskly into the summer throngs surging along the streets.

 

California in the summer is unbearably hot and humid. They’re just a few yards away from the shop and Aster’s already worked up a sweat; he wipes at his cheek, glad he’s taken the rest of his iced tea to go. He switches the tea to his dominant hand, letting the itchy carry strap of his portfolio wrap around his wrist.

 

Jack matches his pace with ease, surfboard tucked under his arm. His wetsuit is peeled off halfway, the upper part wrapped and tied around his waist. Beneath, he is all pale skin and sweat.

 

“You oughta put the rest of that thing back on.” Aster says, taking a pull at his straw, enjoying the tang of the tea’s raspberry flavor. “Don’t want you burning up like a match.”

 

“I’ll be fine.” Jack says with a grin. He likes when Aster worries about him.

 

Stretching one arm out to ease the tension in his muscles, he takes the opportunity to sling it around Aster’s shoulder.

 

“What are you doing?” Aster asks, looking down at him curiously.

 

“I’m tired.” Jack whines, dragging his feet for show. He really is, but he wants Aster to coddle him. He’s greedy for any kind of attention from the Australian. He’ll do most anything to get it, and he knows he eventually will, because if there’s anything he’s learned about Aster it’s that he can’t say no.

 

“Yeah?” The hint of amusement Jack catches in his tone makes his heart skip. “And what do you want me to do about it, mate? We’re almost home.”

 

It’s true: they’re only a few blocks away. But Jack’s been surfing all day while Aster has been at class, and his legs ache with each step.

 

“What  _can_  you do about it?” Jack asks smugly, and Aster lets out an unconvincingly annoyed sigh.

 

“C’mere.” He says, and Jack happily hands him his surfboard, clambering up onto his shoulders. He wraps his arms carefully around Aster’s neck, resting his chin on the top of his head and twitching a little when the Australians arms loop beneath his legs, holding them close around his narrow waist so he won’t fall off.

 

They switch items: Aster hands him his tea and portfolio, and Jack slings the portfolio carefully around his back, keeping the tea in his hands as he hands Aster his board.

 

“Shit, I always forget you’re so tall.” He remarks, looking around at the tops of strangers’ heads.

 

“You’re very observant.” Aster replies dryly, tucking Jack’s surfboard under his other arm (wedges it between his arm and Jack’s leg) and setting off at a noticeably slower pace.

 

They walk for almost twenty minutes, slowly weaving in and out of the thinning crowd. Now and then, when Aster’s throat and tongue have gone dry, he’ll say ‘Tea,’ and Jack will pause his incessant babbling to lower the cup to the Australian’s lips, chuckling a little as he watches those reddened lips seek after the green straw.

 

Jack can’t get over how different things look from this height. It’s incredible, and he’s not as sweaty as before, and his  _legs are around Aster’s waist_.

 

It’s not quite the same situation he’d pictured (read: dreamt of) in his mind, but this is more than enough for now. He happily stays silent the rest of the walk, briefly closing his eyes to memorize the smell of Aster’s shampoo and sweat, the California sun hot on his cheeks.

 

The brief close of his eyes turns into a spontaneous nap, and before he knows it he’s nodded off, head nestled comfortably into soft brown hair.

 

When he wakes, he’s lying on Aster’s sofa, covered with a beach towel.

 

Yawning, Jack stretches and pulls the makeshift blanket off himself, looking around blearily. His board and sandals have been left by the entrance and Aster’s portfolio and plastic cup are on the kitchen counter. The sound of the shower starting startles him back to consciousness a little, and he uses the opportunity to go into Aster’s room, searching through the duffel bag he keeps there and pulling out some more comfortable clothes.

 

He dresses sluggishly, peeling out of his wetsuit (he leaves it on the floor) and pulling on a T-shirt and jeans. He slouches back towards the sofa to rest his hot cheek on the cool surface of its armrest.

 

He’s halfway back to sleep again by the time Aster comes out, and by now it’s started to get a little darker out.  

 

“Sleep well?” Aster asks, pulling a clean pair of jeans from his bag and padding past the living room, pulling on a shirt as he does. The sight of sun-kissed skin, intricate tattoos and muscle leave Jack in a temporary trance, watching the roll of his hips and the lines that dip down beneath that white towel.

 

“Yeah.” He says quickly, shaking himself from his stupor and glancing away, trying to wake himself. “Thanks, by the way.”

 

He hears the shuffle of clothing and the wet drop of the damp towel, the sound of Aster’s bare feet on the dry floor. “No worries.”

 

“Any plans for tonight?”

 

Aster comes out of his room holding the towel, running a hand through wet hair to slick it back from his forehead. “Not really. Maybe some TV, couple of beers.”

 

He heads back into the bathroom, setting his towel up to dry. When he returns, he goes to the fridge and pulls out some beers, uncapping them slowly. Jack watches his movements discreetly, silent on the sofa. He knows Aster’s favorite sound is the soft  _hiss_  of a bottle opening.

 

“Here.” He says when he approaches Jack, handing him a chilled bottle and slumping down onto the sofa.

 

Jack grins, taking a sip of the stuff and drawing his legs up onto the cushion. “Thanks.” He says, taking the remote from where it’s wedged between the cushions and powering on the TV, clicking past the channels until he finds a boring enough movie.

 

Aster watches him for a moment, eyes unreadable. “I spoil you too bloody much.” He says. “I should  _not_ be letting you drink.”

 

They both know that’s Aster’s usual mantra, the same words he says every time he hands Jack any type of alcoholic drink. He secretly suspects Aster doesn’t care at all, but there  _is_  a limit to how much he’s allowed to drink so maybe that’s not exactly true.

 

So he laughs, enjoying the bitter taste on his tongue. “Relax, I’m not as bad as you.”

 

He knows Aster has an affinity for any type of alcoholic drink. It seems something Jack should be worried of, but for now it seems a harmless enough trait.

 

Remembering the portfolio, he glances at it, looking back at Aster curiously. “How are the classes going?” He asks.

 

He doesn’t inquire just to be polite, or to feign interest. He’s genuinely interested in Aster’s work, whether it’s a scratch of a sketch or a complete piece. He’s never seen anything like his work, and it’s no secret that he enjoys watching the Aussie draw.

 

Aster sighs, leaning back into the couch, face bathed in the TV’s LED glow.

 

“Got slaughtered in my critique today.”

 

“What the hell for?” Jack says, outraged. “You’re better than half the people there!”

 

“Don’t say that.” Aster says sharply. “Opinions won’t get us anywhere.”

 

Defeated, Jack sinks down into the cushions, crossing his arms and taking a deep pull on his beer.  He hates that Aster can be so indifferent about his own work when it deserves so much more recognition than what some poncey professors think.

 

“Can I see the piece?” He asks quietly, and the sigh Aster lets out is a warning.

 

“Maybe later.”

 

But Jack won’t heed that cautionary sound, and he presses onwards. “It can’t be that bad, Aster. You can’t hate your art that mu-“

 

“ _Jack_.”

 

He jumps a little at the Australian’s tone, and feels his cheeks burn slightly. Aster’s eyes are both heated and dull, and it’s a mixture Jack doesn’t like at all.

 

“Drop it, mate.” He says, turning back to face the TV. “Right now I just wanna get good and plastered, okay?”

 

The silence that follows is double-edged, and after several beats Jack carefully slides closer to his friend, cautiously leaning into his shoulder and resting his head there. Aster doesn’t resist, and so Jack rests there, taking a quiet gulp of his beer.

 

“Okay.” He says, and that’s how they stay for the rest of the night.

 


	3. a curious stranger (how they met)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He seriously doesn’t know how Aster hasn’t lost it with the way he follows him around so often.
> 
> Then again, there was that time that he did, and that’s how they ‘officially’ met.

The next week passes in a lazy blur.

 

Aster works and goes to class, Jack stays in the apartment or goes out for a swim. When Aster comes home, he’s tired and overworked, but he always makes time for Jack. They play video games and drink beer, go out for walks, lie around in the air-conditioned apartment and listen to the radio to mock the DJs.

 

It’s boring, being alone most of the day, but it’s better than anything Jack’s had in a long time. He’s incredibly lucky to have Aster, he knows, and that’s why he feels guilty for loafing off the Australian so much.

 

The day Aster offered to let him move in was probably the best day of Jack’s life.

 

They’d known each other for several weeks by then, after Aster had gotten over his initial dislike of Jack. They got along well; sure, Aster was competitive and Jack was unreasonably stubborn, but somehow those traits mixed well enough for to provide endless entertainment for them both.

 

Jack had dragged Aster to the beach, intent on getting some good sun and the ice cream Aster had promised him the night before.

 

Somehow, lying on the hot sand and watching other beachgoers frolic, Jack had felt comfortable enough to tell Aster his story. Since he left his family’s place, Jack had been living sofa to sofa, counting on the goodwill and hospitality of friends and his friends’ friends. There had been some mishaps and some misunderstandings along the way, he’d admitted, but nothing that had seriously dented his health, physical or emotional. He could have sworn he’d seen a flicker of sadness on Aster’s face, and after a brief pause, he’d made the offer.

 

Weeks have passed since then and Jack’s still in shock that he hadn’t dreamt that up.

 

He does what he can to help Aster. He cleans the apartment, helps out with the dishes and laundry. He doesn’t want Aster to regret his decision, ever. Now, he can scarcely imagine a life without the surly Australian.

 

He doesn’t have school, he doesn’t have a job, and his family’s thousands of miles away. He hasn’t heard from his mother in almost a year, and he scarcely keeps in touch with his sister.

 

So now he’s living in Aster’s apartment, eating his food, following him around like the clingiest shadow. He seriously doesn’t know how Aster hasn’t lost it with him following him around so often.

 

Then again, there was that time that he did, and that’s how they ‘officially’ met.

 

The first time Jack saw Aster, he was at some little ice cream place down by the beach.

 

It was crowded and busy, and it’s really lucky that Jack even saw him at all.

 

He’d been sat outside, crouched over a tiny book-a Moleskine, Aster had told him weeks later-scribbling out the landscape Jack had noticed him ogling for the past hour or so.

 

He hadn’t really been any remarkable sight, but something about him-the way he gripped his pen, the pushed-back auburn hair and a fleeting glance of serious, emerald eyes had left Jack curious enough to keep stealing glances at him.

 

And when he’d stood, Jack hadn’t really expected anything so marvelous-broad shoulders that tapered down into a narrow waist, strong legs, and  _oh_ , when he’d turned. This guy was a dream. 

 

Of course Jack had followed him. He wanted  _more_  of this stranger.

 

As it turned out, dream guy had a temper.

 

He’d noticed Jack following him around, obviously; as the day had worn on, Jack had dogged this man’s every step, blending not so well in the crowd thanks to his icy white hair.

 

He still doesn’t know why Aster had reacted so violently. Jack had been dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, nothing suspicious. And then Aster had rounded on him, grabbing fistfuls of Jack’s shirt and slamming him into the brick wall of a tourist shop he’d been walking by.

 

And god _damn_ , that voice. He hadn’t taken the guy for an Aussie, but it was a nice surprise.

 

“Why are you following me?” Aster had snapped, and Jack had thrown up his hands in defense and surrender all at once. Green eyes, vivid and sparking with paranoia, glared sharply into his, searching wildly for information.

 

“What, a guy can’t walk around a beach in peace?” Jack asked.

 

“Not when he’s following me around.” Aster said. For a moment, Jack saw his expression falter, noticed a brief flicker of a haunted expression in those eyes. “What’ve you got to do with me, then? You working for Pitchiner?”

 

“I don’t know who that is.” Jack explained calmly, a smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t know what it was about this man that he liked so much, but something about him called out to Jack, caught his interest and held it tight. “Mind taking your hands off me?”

 

Aster had let out a sound of disgust, giving Jack one last searching look before releasing his grip.  “Stop fucking following me and get lost.”

 

But Jack wasn’t going to let this intriguing stranger walk away. He bounded after him curiously, like a puppy interested in a new toy.

 

“I’m sorry.” He said. “Let me buy you a drink?”

 

“I said get lost.”

 

Jack ran ahead in front of Aster, holding out his hands to make the then-stranger pause. “Okay. Wait. Look.”

 

He offered an apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean to freak you out, okay? I just-“ He scrambled for an excuse here, “-I like to people-watch. I thought you looked interesting. I really didn’t mean to offend you or whatever.”

 

Aster looked down at him with ill-hidden contempt. “Are you done?”

 

“Not until you let me buy you a drink.” Jack had said easily, smirking. “Let me make it up to you.”

 

“Buy me a- _are you even old enough_?”

 

“Probably not.” Jack replied. He was enjoying this far, far too much. “But we’ll keep that between you and me, okay?”

 

And then Aster had changed Jack’s life. He’d said yes, on the condition that Jack would leave him alone after.

 

Which he hadn’t, of course.

 

After buying some liquor-Aster to this day  _still_  can’t believe Jack pulled it off-they’d gone to Aster’s apartment and drunk half of his stock dry, and in the morning the Australian had been very confused as to why there was some white-haired kid lying (fully clothed,  _thank god_ ) tangled in his sheets.

 

Oh, he’d tried to get rid of Jack. Aster had allowed Jack to stay in his apartment until his hangover went away, and by the time he’d gotten back from school, the kid had been gone.

 

But he was back the next day, leaning casually against Aster’s door like some old friend. He came again the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that one.

 

They’d argued and spat out petty insults and Aster had nearly called the police once, but in the span of that time, they became more comfortable around one another, until one day, Aster was utterly startled at the realization that he didn’t mind having Jack around.

 

Since then, Aster’s apartment has remained open to Jack, and he loves it more than any place he’s ever been in his life. It’s his safe place, his sanctuary from the troubles that wait and linger in the outside world.  The atmosphere of the place is something warm and solid, wrapping gently around him like the occasional draping of Aster’s arm across his shoulder.

 

It’s home. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve only been to California once, so I’m sorry if any Californian reading this is like ‘dafuq lady you don’t know shit about this place.’


	4. a return and a reappearance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return of old fears brings them closer.

Change comes fast, and it leaves Jack confused and dazed in its wake.

 

He’s spent the day so far eating cereal and watching shitty cartoons. It’s a good way to start, but not entertaining enough. 

 

Putting his bowl down, Jack turns off the TV and heads for Aster’s room. 

 

Since he moved in, he’s been in here a handful of times. He sleeps in the guest room or on the couch, wherever he feels like it. Aster’s bed is obviously not an option, but it’s never been a crime to dream.

 

He edges quietly around the bed, slips carefully between the covers.

 

They’re soft and worn; the scent that clings to them is indubitably Aster’s, indescribable and addicting. He closes his eyes, and imagines the Australian lying next to him.

 

It’s pathetic and wonderful all at once, how easily he can conjure up the sight of those emerald eyes, the soft lips and perfectly sunned skin. He can almost feel Aster’s body heat-always so beautifully  _warm_  and solid where Jack’s own body seems to reject such traits.

 

They slept together once. Not sex, but Aster had been drunk, incredibly so, and Jack had somehow managed to drag him to his bed. But as he’d set Aster down onto the blankets, the Australian’s arms had wound around him, pulling him down into the warmth of his drunken bliss. Aster had nuzzled sleepily into Jack’s neck and fallen asleep there; with the light press of Aster’s nose and lips against his skin, Jack fell asleep as well, thinking dazedly that this was the closest he’d ever get to heaven. 

 

The Aster in his dream blinks lazily at him and smiles. The blankets rustle as he moves to straddle Jack, his hands sliding along the length of his pale arms, pulling them up above his head. He imagines those strong hands circling around his wrists, pinning him to the bed.

 

His hand has just wandered down to the front of his jeans when he hears the front door burst open. For a moment, his mind spins with irrational thoughts-Aster knows what he was doing, he’s going to get yelled at, kicked out.

 

Heart racing, Jack bolts from the bed.

 

He races into the living room, throwing himself hastily onto the sofa and trying to look as if he’s been there all along.  Maybe Aster won’t notice that his sheets have been left in disarray. But Aster rushes right past him instead, straight past Jack without a word. 

 

For a moment, Jack thinks he’s intoxicated-it’s not rare for Aster to come home piss drunk off his ass, but the Australian is terrifyingly sober, and it’s clearly evident as he follows his friend into the studio. His steps are rushed but steady, his path clear into the room.

 

“Aster?” Jack asks, watching as the older man rifles through his bookshelves, grabs armfuls of old sketchbooks and flings them to the floor. 

 

If there’s anything Jack knows, it’s that he is forbidden to touch the books on these particular shelves. Many a time he has pondered the risk of sneaking through them, seeing what it is that Aster wants to hide. He’s come incredibly close, but he knows Aster’s art is private, something so intimate to him he’d be incredibly pissed if he knew Jack had been rifling through it. Besides, he already steps on Aster’s toes so often. He  _does_  respect and care for him, even if his actions sometimes say otherwise.

 

Pages and slips of paper fall out of the books; some fall open, revealing the thoughts and sketches Jack has been kept from seeing.  

 

On them he sees, remarkably, much of the same thing. Blotches and swathes of dark: paint, ink, graphite and other mediums he doesn’t recognize. He bends to collect them, waits to hear Aster object. But he doesn’t, and Jack feels the hairs on the back of his neck prick up. Flipping through the pages provides a dark insight into some dark corner he didn’t know existed in Aster’s mind; hasty scribbles, repeated throughout each page, on the backs and fronts, scrawled and layered over each other. They suggest a dark and troubled mind, nothing like the Aster he knows. 

 

“Aster?” Jack says again, his voice unsure. The pages all feature the same figure-a tall, slender man, his features shadowy and disturbing, a prominent nose. What has Aster been keeping from him?

 

But he doesn’t respond. Aster murmurs rapidly under his breath, seemingly oblivious to Jack’s presence. More and more books spill from the shelves-notebooks, binders, sketchbooks large and small, thin and thick. They create a mess on the floor; troubled at the sight, Jack reaches out carefully to touch Aster’s shoulder, as if to break him out of his trance.

 

Aster doesn’t react, not until Jack shakes him, and he twists wildly, more books scattering from his hands.

 

“Jack.” He breathes, calming visibly at the sight of his friend.  He lets out a sigh, running a trembling hand through his mussed hair. “Blimey, I-“ 

 

“What the hell’s going on?” Jack asks, gesturing to the books. “Are you okay?”

 

He’s never seen Aster so rattled, and it bothers him more than it should. Since he’s known the Australian, he’s been a wonderful constant in Jack’s life, always there to reassure him, placate his fears and worries. He’s solid and steadfast, unmoved by any threat. What could have possibly bothered him so much?

 

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Jack says, and the sob that Aster releases startles him to the bone.

 

Aster bends at the waist, his hands going to his temple to rub and clutch at his skin as though to keep his troubled thoughts inside.

 

Jack can’t help himself.

 

He surges forward, catching Aster in his arms. He’s never held him before, not like this. He feels his body open and loosen up as Aster buries his face into the crook of his shoulder, which quickly grows wet with tears.

 

“He’s found me.” Aster says, and that’s all he’ll say for the hours to come.

 

-

Aster falls asleep in his arms and the sun sets outside. 

 

He’s heavier than he looks. Taking matters into his own hands, Jack stands carefully, hauling his friend up onto the large sofa he has in the back of his studio. Through all this, Aster is dead asleep, his body twitching faintly at any nudge to his frame. It’s hard work and it takes him a few minutes, but when he manages it, Jack immediately nestles himself beside Aster, his nose buried into the soft flannel of Aster’s shirt. 

 

Who is ‘ _he_ ,’ and why does it frighten Aster so to be found?

 

Aster’s skin is softer than Jack expected it to be. 

 

Gently, he closes his hand around Aster’s wrist, feeling a pulse beat gently beneath the pad of his thumb. His frame is muscular and solid, surprisingly pliant in Jack’s hold.

 

 Whatever it is that’s troubling Aster, Jack resolves to help him overcome it. Aster has done more for him than he knows: friendship, hospitality, care and begrudging affection, it’s all there.

 

Jack had been on his own for almost a full three years before meeting Aster, and the miserable experience left him aching and starved for contact, for a friend.

 

Somehow, he got Aster. Call it luck or fate, he ran into (and relentlessly pursued, there’s no denying that) the guy until he’d given up on trying to avoid Jack altogether. Sure they’d started out rough, but Christ, look at them now. This grumpy Aussie has turned Jack’s life completely around for the better.

 

He’ll return the favor any way he can.

 

-

  

“Jack?” Aster says, his voice low and thick with sleep.

 

Blinking himself awake, Jack groans slightly and sits up, looking to his side to see Aster gazing down at him in confusion.

 

“Oh.” He says, suddenly embarrassed, pulling himself up. “Sorry-I-you fell asleep, I had to drag you up here-“ 

 

“It’s okay.” Aster says, rubbing at his eyes. He gives Jack a smile, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. “Thanks, mate.”

 

Jack nods and stifles a yawn; he’s glad Aster’s long gotten over his initial ‘don’t touch me’ phase. That had created some seriously unnecessary arguments.

 

Now, Aster doesn’t seem to mind their closeness. He looks ponderously down at Jack, a large hand reaching down to thread appreciatively through thick white hair. Jack can’t help leaning into the touch, his lashes fluttering in quiet disbelief and pleasure. This is a step in the right direction, he thinks.

 

“I’m being followed.” Aster says out of the blue, when they’ve been sitting together for several minutes.

 

Jack frowns, opens his eyes. “What?” 

 

Aster sighs, shifts until he’s leaning against the sofa’s armrest. Jack moves with him, half pulled by his own desire to be with his friend and the arm that Aster has around him. The Australian doesn’t react; his hand disappears from Jack’s hair, goes to rest on Aster’s stomach instead, thumbing pensively at the flannel. 

 

“There’s a man,” He begins, “who’s been following me for a few years now. He’s dangerous, and I think he wants to kill me.”

 

The silence that follows afterward is mind numbing.

 


	5. premonition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened the day before (there are a lot of things Jack doesn't notice).

In the bookstore, Aster reads and Jack browses the shelves.

 

He strolls casually along, occasionally picking up a book and weighing it in his hands, flipping it to read the summary.

 

It’s not books he’s after, but it’s enough to distract him from Aster, who’s currently sat in the café drinking some kind of latté and looking so utterly delectable that Jack had almost hated him for it.

 

The bookstore sells all kinds of things ranging from actual books to inane little keychains and pens. Nothing in particular catches his eye however, and so he returns to their table in defeat.

 

Apple eyes come up to meet his. The smile on Aster’s face is calm and content: he’s never happier than when in the warmth of the sun, and it shows. The sunlight is golden on his already rich skin, and it cuts through his eyes, highlighting the barely noticeable hazel flecks embedded deep in his irises. He very much resembles a sunbathing cat.  “Have a good look around?”

 

“Yeah.” Jack says, slumping down into the chair.  He snatches Aster’s latté and rolls the plastic cup in his hands, watching as the condensation beads on his skin. “Nothing interesting.”

 

“You’re joking, right?” Aster leans back in his chair, raising an unimpressed brow at the youth. “There’s plenty of stuff here to be interested in, mate.”

 

_Like you_ , Jack thinks, and rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Now hurry up, I’m bored.”

 

Aster doesn’t like being rushed. He glares at Jack and takes his time finishing his sketch (he’ll color it in with watercolors later, a bright depiction of the bookstore’s view out onto the street below), taking long drinks from his cup until it’s long gone and he’s sucking on the ice.

 

When they do leave, they go to the beach.

 

He catches Aster watching him undress.

 

“See something you like?” Jack taunts, twisting to showcase a hip, and Aster scowls, throwing a towel at him.

 

“I noticed your scar.” Aster explains. “Cocky little wanker.”

 

“What, this?” Jack looks down to his belly, where a long sliver of discolored skin patches noticeably up into his abdomen. He rubs thoughtfully at it with his finger. “Went skating and fell through some thin ice. I was just wearing a thin sweater, so a big chunk of ice caught the skin and sorta just..”

 

He puts his hands together and then sort of yanks them apart to mimic a tear, grimacing a little.

 

“Crikey.” Aster says, looking down at Jack’s belly again. Jack’s sure the gaze lingers, but he’s not one to delude himself into thinking more of it.

 

Swimming is more fun than it has any right to be.  Too many times, Jack finds himself being dragged under by a firm hand around his ankle, and he laughs and shouts and squeezes his eyes shut as the water rises up around him, opening them to see Aster grinning wide, his hair loose and moving bewitchingly with the ocean’s currents. He’s never had more fun, it feels like, and he desperately wishes he had a camera to be documenting all this with.

 

Jack retaliates with splashes of water: he aims for Aster’s face, and laughs when he shouts and tries swimming away. He follows after, determined for revenge.

 

They get a little too carried away with their tomfoolery and end up wrestling like a pair of adolescent boys in the sand. Aster has far more strength than Jack had anticipated, and so he pins Jack with ease, his body shaking with laughter when the younger male shoves and punches at him to no avail.

 

“Give up yet?” Aster asks, feigning a yawn.

 

Jack scowls and slaps at his chest, and the Australian laughs and rolls off of him to lie flat on his back in the hot sand. “Think I actually felt that one.”

 

He can’t help grinning, nor can he help moving closer to his friend, so close that the tips of his hair touch Aster’s shoulder. “Shut up. We can’t all be big muscle-y dudes.”

 

“True.” Aster allows, bringing a hand up to rub some saltwater from his eye. “Hey, you want some Chinese food later? Got my paycheck.”

 

“Dude, when do I _not_ want Chinese?” Jack says, and he swears he feels his stomach rumble interestedly at the mention of it. He nudges Aster’s bicep with his knuckles. “C’mon, let’s go home. If I stay out here any longer I’m gonna burn up.”

 

He gets up, and he’s too busy brushing the sand off his shorts that he misses the way Aster’s eyes alternately soften and brighten at his use of the word ‘home.’

 

Even then, if he’d noticed Jack would have probably written it off as a trick of the light.

 

So they return to the apartment with bags of Chinese food, and as Jack digs into his vegetable lo mein he closes his eyes to savor it, a blissful smile spreading on his face. There’s no greater feeling than eating a good meal after a fun, busy day, he explains to Aster as he chews.

 

Chinese food is the first thing they ever ate together, after Aster offered to let Jack stay. It’d been midday when Jack had brought his things (namely that torn up duffel bag that held all his clothes and worldly possessions). Aster had just gotten home: he’d stood in the kitchen, unpacking the takeout boxes and the way the apartment had smelled (clean and with the scent of grass and leaves, as Aster kept many plants) doubled with the scent of the food had immediately seemed like the most amazing thing Jack had ever experienced.

 

Then, things had been different.

 

Though their friendship had improved a little around that time, they were in no way as close as they are now, and so they’d spent the first few days in an awkward dance around each other. They were polite and spoke only to break the silence like strangers stuck in an elevator together until they reached the top floor.

 

It took a night of booze for them to open up and relax a little more, and the morning after, when Aster had woken to find Jack entwined messily in his sheets, they’d both shared embarrassed and silly laughter.

 

He thinks maybe that’s why Aster likes to drink. When he’s not comfortable around someone, he’s reserved and silent, almost rude.  The alcohol takes the edge off his discomfort.

 

As he chews, his eyes are closed, so naturally he doesn’t notice the way Aster watches, a ghost of a fond smile apparent on his lips.

 

Maybe there is something there after all, Jack would have thought giddily if he’d caught the smile. Maybe he’s not pining away like a hopeless fool for nothing.

 

But he misses the sight, and when he opens his eyes again Aster’s expertly using the chopsticks provided with their meal. Intrigued, he tries doing the same, and when he fails and nearly drops some orange chicken on the ground, he demands that Aster teach him the technique.

 

By the time they start cleaning up, Jack’s gotten a little better at it, and Aster realizes he has a new protégé in more ways than one.

 

The realization comes the next morning.

 

It’s a little strange, the timing, but Jack doesn’t argue with it. The news isn’t exactly..well, new.

 

But maybe it’s not so strange, Jack thinks as he watches Aster gulp at his coffee. Maybe there’s really no order to the way things happen at all.

 

Aster’s woken up late, and though he’s a little cross with Jack for not waking him, he’s far too busy scrambling to get ready for class than to scold him. Rushing around the kitchen, he grabs an apple and bites hastily into it, carrying it along with him into his room as he throws on a shirt and jeans.

 

It really wasn’t Aster’s fault to begin with. Jack had woken to the sound of his friend’s alarm down the hall, and had gone to his room to wake him. But Aster had seemed so beautifully relaxed in his slumber that Jack had been loath to wake him, so he’d unplugged his alarm clock and tiptoed from the room. He overworked himself to the bone some days, Jack knew. Aster needed to allow himself some time to relax.

 

And then Aster’s phone alarm had gone off about ten minutes later (also late, which Aster would realize several hours later), and he’d nearly thrown himself from bed.

 

“Have you seen my bag anywhere?” He calls out, and Jack laughs as he finishes brushing his teeth, leaving the bathroom and heading to his room.

 

“You left it in the kitchen.”

 

The Australian rushes past him with a mumble of thanks, slinging the bag onto his shoulder and carding his fingers through his hair in an attempt to neaten it. It’s obvious he’s just woken, but he looks clean and anxious, and that little bit of hair that sticks up at the back of his head looks cute so Jack’s not going to tell him about it.

 

He’s nothing if not a little selfish, after all.

 

Once he’s finished his apple, Aster gives Jack a quick wave and grin. “I’ll be home later. Try not to get in trouble.” He says, and closes the door behind him.

 

Without him, the apartment feels void of life. There’s usually such an air of energy and dynamic calm to Aster that it lingers thickly wherever he’s been, much like a smoker’s wreath of stench.

 

Jack’s decided he’s going to go walk around today, see if he can find himself something to do. As much as he likes hanging around the apartment, it’s not the same without Aster there.

 

As he tugs his shirt over his head (he replaces it with a green one Aster found for him at the thrift shop, one with the image of a surfer and ‘Australia’ curled over the motif), he thinks back to the way Aster had looked when he’d woken earlier. Bleary eyes that still managed to look alarmed at the time, brows pressed upwards in disbelief.  Aster rarely overslept, if at all.

 

If he’d gone into Aster’s room, he might have noticed the way the alarm clock hasn’t been reset to ring again tomorrow, or the way that the sheets are tucked in neatly to the frame. It would have looked to him as though Aster had taken his time after all and had been contemplating taking the day off and spending it with Jack, just to see him smile and laugh and try eating their leftovers with chopsticks all over again.

 

In his own room, Jack thinks back to the way Aster had laughed when Jack told him he’d unplugged the alarm.

 

His affectionate crush has melted and shape-shifted into something else overnight, he can feel it. It’s something else entirely now, something a little bigger and a little more serious. He finds himself wishing he’d been awake to experience it, wonders if that’s why he’d dreamt of them on the beach again, with their hands and fingers intertwined and dug deep into the damp sand.

 

 He still doesn’t know why he unplugged the alarm or why Aster had laughed instead of gotten angry, but all the same he feels himself falling just a little further in love, love love.

 

It’s a half hour later that Aster returns to the apartment, running back and straight into his studio.

 

(As it turns out, it’s lucky Jack unplugged the alarm, because if Aster had arrived to his studio as early as he usually did, he might have run into an intruder, and what would have happened then even he doesn’t know.

 

He doesn’t tell Jack this.

 

The youth’s embrace is the most reassuring warmth he has ever known, and he lets himself sink easily into the sweet solace of Jack’s familiar presence instead.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be an individual drabble based off the Deliverance AU and then I decided it'd work for the story.
> 
> Also, I have that Australia shirt Jack's wearing and it is awesome.


	6. thinking back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explanations served alongside a child's breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so fucking done with this chapter. Just done.

The full explanation won’t come until the next day, but Jack doesn’t mind the wait. Aster’s exhausted and needs time to recover from the shock.

 

He sighs and nuzzles into his friend’s shoulder, his gaze flickering down to Aster’s stomach. He feels the corners of his lips lift sporadically, and squashes the urge to smile for fear of seeming over-enthusiastic.

 

Aster fell asleep holding his hand.

 

Jack brushes his thumb over the Aussie’s knuckles. Aster’s grip has gone slack in his relaxed state, but his fingers are still curled closely over Jack’s own like he’s some kind of lifeline.

 

It says more than he thinks he’ll ever hear from Aster, so he takes it willingly. For now, this is what they have and he’s okay with that.

 

-

 

The next morning, Jack wakes to find himself alone on the sofa. Aster’s beach towel is draped over his shoulders, and though he still feels the miniscule grains of sand shifting from its folds onto his skin, he can smell the beach and Aster’s own sweat and sunblock deep in its threads and it’s really just a wonderful way to wake up.

 

Nearby, Aster has gathered the mess of sketchbooks into his arms and is in the process of stacking them neatly back into their proper shelves.

 

“’bout time you got up.” He says, giving Jack a small, nervous smile when the youth comes padding up to him, barefoot and sleepy like a child on a Saturday morning. He keeps the towel wrapped around him, and when Aster notices his eyes go soft.

 

It’s not unusual for them to have physical contact, but it’s definitely not super common either. Maybe yesterday’s incident rattled him just that much. Aster puts the books down, and Jack swallows back a content sigh when Aster pulls him into his arms. He lets his temple rest against that broad chest, his eyes wide with gentle awe.

 

“Was gettin’ worried you’d gone comatose on me.”

 

“I wouldn’t do that to you.” Jack whispers. He brings careful hands to Aster’s back, gives him a squeeze of a hug and lets go just as Aster does. They both step back, their eyes suddenly anywhere but on each other.

 

Clearing his throat, Jack turns to the shelves. He hesitates before reaching out, running his fingers along their weathered spines, wondering if Aster will ever let him look into them more fully. “So..are you gonna explain about yesterday?”

 

The older man pauses: he sighs, looks down at his feet and nods. “Yeah.” He answers. “But over cereal or something, I’m starving.”

 

They head to the kitchen to prepare whatever they’re patient enough to make. They end up with a stack of pancakes and a bowl of cereal each (one of the many novelties of living with someone in possession of a sweet tooth as huge as Aster’s, Jack thinks happily as he digs into his Froot-Loops).

 

It takes Aster almost exactly an hour and forty-five minutes to explain.

 

-

 

At 19, Aster had just finished undergoing medical training with his father. His parents by then had given up on any hope of Aster going into the medical field and were disappointed for it, but not entirely so. His father insisted he have some medical training on the excuse of practicality. Maybe some day, he had told his son, he would need to perform CPR, give someone stitches, or nurse a broken leg with minimal supplies.

 

(A year later, he would learn that no amount of training or medical know-how could have prepared him for his father’s sudden and inexplicable death.) 

 

By that time, Aster had won several awards and received much recognition in the area for his art. There were promises of scholarships into SCA and Raffles and numerous other art schools in Australia.

 

But Aster wanted something new. He wanted to go to the States, and had diligently sent out applications to schools all over the West coast in hopes of achieving this ultimate goal. And achieve he did, as weeks before graduation he’d received an acceptance letter to his first choice- an excellent arts school in California.

 

He had known Kozmotis Pitchiner since he was sixteen.

 

Kozmotis was both a friendly and wealthy man. He served as head of security at the hospital in which Aster’s father worked. He had once been a big-time cop in Sydney, but after the death of his wife had decided to settle somewhere quieter to look after his daughter. Since he’d moved into the area, he and the Bunnymunds had gotten along well, but their young, green-eyed son had been a particularly good friend.

 

Known as a responsible and diligent young man, Aster had been entrusted to care for Kozmotis’ child, a sickly girl who needed constant care. Now, Aster was good with children, always had been. He and the girl had gotten along from the start, and during the time in which he cared for her they became very close friends.

 

Pitchiner had liked Aster well enough before he took up the job: he was friendly and fun, if not at times a little cocky. But when he was caring for Pitchiner’s daughter: giving her medicine, telling her stories or bringing her puzzle games, he was sweet and attentive, looking very much like a young father. This quickly won Pitchiner’s favor, and to many it seemed he had taken a shining to the teen. They got along like good friends, and few (if any at all) suspected secret-keeping.

 

The last day of Aster’s care (unbeknownst to him at the time), he’d had to leave early for work. Leaving the girl in the hands of her caretaker, Aster had left the Pitchiner household after a quick goodbye and promise to the child of returning later for a game of hopscotch.

 

Hours into work, he had received a call concerning several deaths and a robbery.

 

The days after that had gone by in a blur: funeral preparations and police investigations, news reports and trying to evade the newshungry media as best he could.

 

Details of the incident unraveled slowly as the days went by: an hour after his departure, Pitchiner’s house had been broken into: everyone inside had been killed and any object of value stolen. The news spread like wildfire across the media, sensationalized with flashy titles and gruesome pictures of the scene. It had happened just days before his high school graduation, which forced him to sit out on the ceremony as his every step was dogged by investigators and reporters.

 

Aster was innocent, of course. He had airtight alibis and no motive to kill the child or anyone else in that house, much less _steal_.

 

But Pitchiner didn’t think so, and he was strongly, surprisingly vocal on the matter. Much to Aster’s shock, he tried several times to press charges against the teen, fought to have him brought in and questioned time after time. The devastated father was convinced that he was to blame and he sought his ill-minded justice with a fury Aster had never seen before. The cases against him were quickly dropped as proof of his innocence was revealed, but still, as he passed by Pitchiner’s house everyday on his way home from school, he’d felt a sharp stab of fear, knowing that the man he’d once trusted was probably watching him, hating him fiercely for something Aster hadn’t done.

 

The killers were never found.

 

At first, Aster had held some reservations on leaving his home country, but with such violence and public distrust associated with his name, how could he? There was no possible way he would be able to live in peace. So he took the scholarships and money offered to him and moved to the States, eager to get away from the accusations and guilt that haunted him.

 

And slowly, he began to receive news of his family’s end.

 

A year after he’d left, Aster was told of his father’s death.

 

 _It’d been quick and apparently painless, the doctors had told him. He’d just collapsed, and upon further inspection it had been found that his heart had simply_ stopped _._

 

It had been a large, painful loss for the family, and as much as he argued and pleaded, his mother refused to let him miss out on his studies to fly home for the funeral.

 

‘ _We’ll still be here when you come back for the summer break_.’ _She’d said, her voice crackling over the phone line._ ‘ _Study, love. Focus and work hard. You know he always wanted to see you succeed._

_You know he was proud of you_.’

 

He’d gone back to Australia for the summer, and had knelt with his sister and wept at his mother’s feet. They’d done their best to try and smooth the tears from their mother’s eyes, but the dull, vacant look to her eyes lingered.

 

She died months after Aster returned to the States.

 

_It was the grief that caused it, the doctor told him busily over the phone. It’s common: sudden loss or shock can send a person into a numb state, often causing irreparable mental damage, perhaps worse. Your mother couldn’t seem to handle it, and her mind began to shut down._

 

Then his sister was next. She had a heart attack a year after, and in his stunned rage at the news Aster had flung every dish and breakable item about his apartment (he was forcibly evicted a week after), sobbing, savoring the sting of disbelief and freshly cut skin on his knuckles and fingertips as what little connection he had left to sanity.

 

_What can I tell you, Aster?_

_The doctor sounds flat and thin over the phone, almost annoyed._

_It was a heart attack, nothing more. Really, Aster, if you so much as request calling in another investigation I’ll be forced to-_

 

_He hung up and set his phone aside on the coffee table, placing his feverish temple in his palms and breathing in deep._

 

His immediate family wiped out in the span of two years. It was inexplicable, and it was terrifying.

 

He’d called in to some of his father’s old coworkers, found out they’d all been treated and taken in to the hospital where Aster’s father and Pitchiner had once worked. They’d done their best to console him, gave him some bullshit stories of illness and painless deaths, but Aster wouldn’t have any of it. His family was _dead_ and no one was giving him straight answers. 

 

Something had gone badly back home.

 

-

 

A note had caused his panic, Aster says.

 

He had gone into his studio at the university to find several of his canvases slashed and torn to pieces. He’d found a note taped to one of them-a torn piece of paper with a crude sketch of a rabbit on it.

 

A calling card, he’d thought absently, and he’d been so struck by the sight of it that it hadn’t yet occurred to him that the intruder could still be in the same room.

 

It was only when Aster had looked up again and seen a jar of black paint smashed open on his desk  (long tendrils of it snaking towards the floor like inky fingers, the paint still _fresh_ ) that he had fled.

 

“So-he’s here.” Jack states. “He’s following you?”

 

“Dunno.” Aster says, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He looks as though he hasn’t just slept nearly a full day through.

 

“It’s not your fault.” Jack says. He longs to stroke his fingers through Aster’s hair and shush him ‘til he’s calm. “You had no way of knowing what going to happen.”

 

“Maybe not.” Aster replies softly. He stretches a little and puts the empty cereal bowl onto the coffee table, edging closer into the couch’s armrest and leaning there, tired and haunted. “But all those people are dead because of me, and I reckon he still wants me to rot away in jail.”

 

“Stop it.” Jack snaps. He’s long ago finished eating and so he moves with ease, climbing over the coffee table and into the Australian’s lap. He places his palms in the grooves of Aster’s jaw, holding him so that they’re looking each other square in the eye. He doesn’t even think about how good it feels to be there, or how Aster’s arms rise up defensively to grab Jack’s sides, to pull him away. “ _Stop_ it. Don’t blame yourself for something you couldn’t prevent.”

 

Aster’s eyes, usually so vague, are painfully easy to read in close proximity. There’s guilt and hatred and fear and pain there, all a heavy mix that screams his disagreement. He blames himself and Jack can see the pain flashing there even when he nods and mumbles out an ‘okay.’ The lie leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but he won’t press Aster too hard. Not now, at least.

 

“Good.” Jack says shakily. He shifts off his lap and leans against Aster, his hands still and quietly restrained in his lap. Self-control is a hard thing to maintain around Aster. He wonders if it’s likewise.

 

If it hadn’t been for the gravity of their situation, they would have been amusing to notice how often they were falling asleep (together) on the couch.

 

In somber silence, they sit like that for several moments, neither finding the strength nor will to move. It’s fast becoming a routine, this sleepy closeness, and judging by the way Aster’s hand finds his, he can guess that the Australian doesn’t mind it at all.

 

The heaviness of Aster’s story sits on Jack’s shoulders like a heavy drift of snow. “I’m sorry about your family.” He murmurs, his fingers squeezing lightly around Aster’s palm.

 

Jack wishes his throat hadn’t closed up so much. There’s so much he wants to say.

 

_I won’t let anything happen to you. We’ll keep each other safe._

“It’s no worry.” Aster’s gaze is affixed firmly on the doorway to his studio, as though he’s contemplating something. Maybe he just doesn’t want to look at Jack, at their hands.

 

“Wherever they are, I reckon they’re okay.”

 

He doesn’t sound at all convinced.

 


	7. unattainable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s odd to be struck by such sudden sadness when he’s actually having fun, but maybe it’s one of those things about the human mind that neither Jack or the most advanced and knowledgable scientists will ever fully comprehend.

A week passes and Aster’s panic seems to have settled at last.

 

Since that day he came running into the apartment, he’s been unlike himself, jumping at his own shadow and making his way directly home after class or work.

 

Jack is patient with him. He guides his friend carefully from the paranoia- several times in that one week he's had to take Aster's hand and tug him away when he sees him peering uncertainly out the window into the street below. 

 

He’s not totally gentle: he’ll scold Aster when his fears get irrational, throws pillows at him and yells when he gets up to check the alarm at night.

_‘This needs to stop.’ He tells Aster at one point, his voice high and near exasperation. ‘You’re safe. You’re fine. Nothing’s going to happen.’_

_Aster only flips back to the front of the ink-splotched sketchbook, staring down quietly at a heavy illustration of that same angular face and nods._

 

At the zoo, they’re standing by the lion exhibit and Aster doesn’t once look at the large felines. Instead, he watches Jack watch them, obviously thinking hard on something.

 

It’s a little weird, Jack thinks as he pretends not to notice, how he usually craves the attention and now that he’s receiving it he feels a little uncomfortable. There’s something to that long, assessing stare that makes him feel like a book, splayed open for anyone to read.

 

“Something on your mind?” He inquires finally, deciding to stop pretending he’d been reading the informative plaque attached to the wall. He turns his gaze towards Aster, waiting patiently for a response.

 

“Yeah.” Aster says, still not looking away. He’s intent on this, whatever it is.

 

Jack’s heart skips a beat.

 

“If something goes wrong-” Aster begins, and Jack’s on him in a flash, punching hard at his shoulder.

 

“Shut up.” He snaps. “Don’t talk like that.”

 

But Aster grabs his wrist and forces him to stay still. Jack glares up at him; he’s starting to get annoyed with this pessimistic side to Aster. He wants the Aster he knows back, the one who’ll sing and slur weird Aussie ditties after too many pints and chuckle and knock Jack’s shoulder with his own when he’s done well in a match of Halo.

 

He hates that this Pitchiner creep has reduced Aster to such a paranoid and haunted _mess_.

 

 “I’m serious, Jack. If I- if something happens to me, I want you to have everything.”

 

Words of protest die on Jack’s tongue. “What?”

 

“I’ll leave everything to you.” Aster explains. “My family’s all dead. My relatives back home don’t need the money.”

 

Distantly, Jack realizes Aster’s referring to the generous inheritance left behind by his father’s death. It’s what’s been paying for his better than most apartment, for his studies and comfortable furniture.

 

He remembers a conversation he’d overheard between Aster and a classmate on one of those first days when he’d followed Aster around into bars and to the beach.

 

_‘You’re practically rolling in it and you’re looking for a job?’ the friend asks, lifting a hand to call over the bartender. ‘God, Aster, I swear I don’t get you at all.’_

_‘Nothing to get.’ Aster had mumbled into his glass. ‘Just like to work, is all.’_

_‘Ha. ‘Like to work,’ my ass. It’s just a story for the ladies, isn’t it? Is that how you do it?’ The friend said, accepting a full glass and leaning over to waggle his eyebrows at a pair of attractive women sitting nearby. ‘Hey ladies, did you know my friend here’s fucking stacked but likes to work for minimum wage? Does he sound like your kinda guy?’_

 

Aster’s thumb meets his pointer finger across the length of his wrist and Jack’s not sure if it feels more like a caress or a bind. “You do. You’re more than deserving of it.”

 

Jack doesn’t realize how badly he’s shaking until he yanks his wrists free. He runs instantly, leaving the Australian alone with the lions that yawn and stare uninterestedly at the noisy creatures before the glass. He pushes past crowds of people and searches for the zoo’s exit, and his breath won’t come and his legs feel like jelly.

 

He can’t think, he can’t breathe.

 

Jack thinks he’s off the hook when he passes by the hotdog vendors. He saw those on their way in-he must be close to the exit. Later, when he’s calmed down, he’ll return to the apartment and give Aster a piece of his mind. Now, he needs a moment to get his mind to stop spinning.

 

He hates Aster for bringing up that possibility, the chance that something will happen to him and that Jack will be alone _again_. His heart clutches painfully in his chest; if there’s anyone he doesn’t want to lose, it’s Aster, and he’s not ready at all to be having this conversation. They’re both so young, what is Aster even thinking?

 

Does Pitchiner really pose that much of a threat to his life?

 

Jack shouts a little when he feels himself being pulled back, and he hates that those hands are so familiar when he’s only felt them around him like this a handful of times.

 

Aster’s arms are strong and reassuring, a little oily from the sunscreen. He lifts Jack into his arms silently and carries the shaking youth to the zoo’s safari themed restaurant.

 

People are staring, but that’s the least of their worries.

 

“Don’t you dare.” Jack says, once Aster’s set him down in a booth and climbs in next to him.  He tries to push away, out of the seat, and Aster sighs and grabs his shoulder, pushing him gently back down. Frustrated, Jack fights against him, and a nearby waitress watches them, biting her lip and obviously wondering if she should alert authorities.

 

“I’m not some fucking charity case, okay? Don’t act like I’m some orphan who needs handouts-you can’t just say things like that, you can’t give everything to some _stranger you hardly know_ -“

 

“You did.” Aster cuts in, and Jack’s so startled he falls silent, his thoughts wholly derailed.

 

“You followed me around and acted like I was the most interesting thing you’d ever seen. Bloody fucking annoying you were, trying to get me to talk to you, to stop ignoring you, to-”

 

Aster pauses, as though hearing the old fire seep back into his words, the venomous hatred he’d once felt for the white-haired boy huddled close against him.

 

The words snap and dig their teeth into Jack’s shoulders; of course he’s known about this. In the beginning, Aster hadn’t tried keeping his dislike of Jack a secret. But knowing something and hearing it proven are two entirely different things.

 

“I hated you.” Aster continues, his eyes downcast. “I couldn’t _stand_ you. And then one day I realized it was because I had fun with you, when for so long I’d been denying myself anything of the sort.”

 

Now there’s this confession that Jack hadn’t known he’d wanted so badly, and it reaches down his throat and tears the breath straight from his lungs. He’d hungered after such words but always deemed them unattainable, hidden away somewhere he’d never hear them.

 

“All these things you’ve done for me-don’t think I haven’t noticed. You mean a lot to me, Jack.” Aster says, and Jack flinches away from the hand that seeks his shoulder, still reeling from his words. 

 

Aster retracts his hand, lets it fall onto the table and play with the table’s napkin dispenser. “More than you know. Why else do you think I let you move in with me, you bloody idiot?”

 

Jack looks up, and Aster lets out a quiet “Oh, _mate_ ,” when he notices the tears.

 

He lets out a tiny cry of hurt and surprise when Aster pulls him into a hug, and he can’t help the way his arms instantly latch around him, his shoulders shaking with the effort to keep his crying unheard.

 

“It’s not about the money,” Aster whispers to him, stroking a thumb over Jack’s cheek in simple consolation. “If you don’t want it, that’s fine. I just-worst comes to worst, I want you to be _safe_. I want you to be okay.”

 

Jack’s tears blur his sight; he feels as though he’s peering through a wet window, watching a downpour of rain muddle its clear surface and blend the outside world into something unrecognizable. He doesn’t know what to say and he doesn’t know what he _can_ say.

 

Someone wants him safe. _Aster_ wants to take care of him. Aster _cares_.

 

 “You’re fucking insane.” Jack says, and immediately regrets it. He could have said ‘thank you,’ or ‘I love you’ or ‘why?’ and instead he wasted his opportunity.

 

But it’s worth it to hear the little huff of laughter that comes from Aster, and for the press of a stubbled cheek against his own. “Maybe.” 

 

“Nothing’s going to happen to you, Aster.” Jack mumbles, pressing his wet face into a strong shoulder. He presses a kiss there without thinking, feels Aster’s arms tighten around him for a fraction of a second before resuming their gentler, safer hold. “Don’t talk like that.”

 

“Maybe.” Aster repeats, watching as the waitress and a security guard approach their booth.

 

They get kicked out for ‘creating a scene,’ so they go back to the apartment.

 

Neither of them mentions what happened at the zoo.

 

Jack laughs as Aster squeezes out what looks like half a bottle of chocolate syrup onto their bowls of ice cream. It looks like one spoonful alone could cause a mouthful of cavities. He says as much, and Aster grins.

 

“C’mon.” He says, nudging Jack’s elbow with his own.

 

He’s led into Aster's room, where they pile up onto his bed and switch on the TV. Aster starts up his Xbox’s Netlix and lets Jack choose what he likes.

 

They go from an episode of Heroes to The Switch. When they get curious about Psych Jack finds himself crying again, and he can’t for the life of him explain why at Aster’s startled inquiry.

 

It’s odd to be struck by such sudden sadness when he’s actually having fun, but maybe it’s one of those things about the human mind that neither Jack or scientists or the smartest mind in the world will ever fully comprehend. It could be intuition or just relief or the ghost of a long repressed emotion thick on his tongue, but when Aster pulls him into his lap and holds him tighter than before, the feeling doubles and he sobs until he’s hiccupping.

 

Aster eases him through it, rubbing his back and murmuring soft little reassurances to him. He puts the bowls off to the side and shifts them both until they’re lying on the mattress, pulling a blanket up over their waists.

 

When he wipes the wet from Jack’s cheeks, the gesture is so tender that Jack’s heart burns. He grabs at Aster’s hand and clutches it tight, closing his eyes to avoid seeing any sign of displeasure or annoyance at his actions.

 

If anything, he can use his sudden burst of emotion as an excuse for his actions.

 

A hand cards through his hair, rubbing soothingly at his scalp and tugging him further into sleep with each stroke. By the time he’s out cold, Aster releases a shuddering sigh, his own eyes hazy and fiercely red with held-back tears. 

 


	8. an old haunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be doing this. But maybe it’s time Aster stopped hating himself for things that happened so long ago. He’s sure he won’t make those same mistakes with Jack. He won’t.
> 
> He's sure of it.

Thursday night is a good night because Aster comes home early from work. He’s been promoted, he says excitedly, rushing into his room to dump his portfolio and bag there.

 

His excitement brightens the apartment; Jack grins wide and leaps up onto the Australian’s shoulders, sending him off balance and the two of them tumbling down onto the floor.

 

It’s the times like this he lives for now, the giddy laughter they share and the genuine happiness on Aster’s face. Not for the first time, Jack feels his heart expand and shiver gleefully at both their nearness and the way Aster’s clutching at his stomach as though that will contain his laughter.

 

When his chuckles have eased off, Aster rolls onto his belly and elbows, peering excitedly at Jack from where he lies to his right. “Let’s go celebrate.” He suggests.

 

He takes Jack out for drinks, and that’s how they end up at a club.

 

Rarely does he see Aster so happy and willing to go somewhere he normally wouldn’t (or so he thinks), so Jack goes along happily, chattering away the whole walk there. The place isn’t too far from their apartment, but in the night’s slow summer heat time seems to crawl by, and it feels like they have a whole eternity ahead of them under cover of the star-dotted sky.

 

Just another one of those strange summer nights, Aster thinks to himself as he watches Jack fan tiredly at his sweating neck, where everything happens perfectly, almost dreamlike.

 

The club is big and the music that blasts inside seems to leak through its soundproofed frame, making the whole surrounding area sound like it’s part of the show. It’s a neon-lit building set near a beach, and people swarm around the entrance, their laughter and clothing as bright and flashy as the club’s interior. The bouncer takes a single glance at Aster and waves the two of them in.

 

“Do you know him?” Jack asks curiously, running to keep up with the Australian who’s already taking a seat at the bar.

 

Aster orders some drinks, and for a moment the bartender goes noticeably still, his eyes snagging on Aster’s, a tiny spark of recognition in his eyes. He shakes it away instantly and gives him a warm smile, immediately going off to fetch more glasses, and Aster’s too busy answering Jack’s question to wonder what that was all about.

 

“Who, the bouncer?” Aster asks, turning to face Jack.

 

It’s a little hard to hear him over the music that thunders from the stereos around them and the loud buzz of a busy place so Jack moves closer, hopping up into the chair beside him. “Yeah.”

 

Aster smiles a little. “I used to work with him. We took a Tai-Chi class together, and after he got a job here he put in a good word for me.”

 

“You were a bouncer? Badass.” Jack says, and takes a drink. He doesn’t know what the drink consists of, but it’s sweet and strong and it loosens him up almost immediately.

 

“Not at all.” Aster corrects him, watching as the bartender returns. He hands Aster his drink and gives the other to Jack, giving him a quick smile before leaving to tend to other customers.  “Got into a lot of bad scrapes.”

 

Jack shrugs and grins. “Don’t we all? You just got paid for it.”

 

Inevitably, Aster’s eyes are drawn to him, and that’s how he spends the rest of the night: watching Jack. As they sit at the bar and order drink after drink, it’s all he can do, and after so steady a stream of drinks he no longer bothers hiding it.

 

He would feel weird about it if he didn’t know for a fact that Jack liked the attention, and that he himself enjoys watching him. That constant look of excitement in those blue eyes can hold Aster rooted to the ground in a pleasant daze.

 

Jack fits right into the crowd. He looks young and vibrant, virile to the extent that Aster considers leaving the building to get some suddenly much needed air.  Watching him makes Aster feel charged with something he can’t name, some brilliant energy that crackles like fire along his nerves, spreading fast and wide.

 

And then he notices that Jack’s reaching towards him, his expression eager and excited.

 

“Oh, mate, you don’t wanna do that-“ Aster warns, but Jack only laughs. He sets his drink down and slides off his chair, grabbing Aster’s hands and pulling him towards the dance floor.

 

Aster can dance, but not too well. He’s always been embarrassed by it-but now, here with Jack it’s as if that never mattered at all. He has no idea what song’s playing or who sings it, but its beat is fast and Jack looks like he’s enjoying himself far too much. They start out at a reasonable distance; surrounded by other dancers, it’s good enough, but then Jack steps just a little closer and Aster has to fight to not step away. Any physical closeness between them is something he doesn’t often allow himself to enjoy for fear of-

 

Oh, but he’s kept it from himself this long, hasn’t he?

 

It’s then that Jack winds skinny arms around his shoulders and pulls him in; this close, Aster’s sure Jack can feel the way his heart beats hard and nervous against his chest. It drums in his ears, almost as loud as the music that beats around them.

 

Together, they move to the music, and it’s closer than they’ve ever been, far nearer than when they’ve fallen asleep together in his bed. It’s incredibly intimate and Aster isn’t surprised at all that Jack’s done it. He’s a daring little thing.

 

It doesn’t surprise Aster as much as it should to find how much he likes to feel Jack so near. In the safety of his mind he can admit to himself that he likes the closeness, the clasp of Jack’s hands on him when he’s brave enough to and that he loves whenever Jack takes any excuse to touch him.

 

Some three or four months ago it might have bothered him excessively. Now, he finds he craves the touch, and he’s not sure he can put the feeling the soft brushes of a white palm evoke in him to words.

 

A slender thigh sneaks its way between Aster’s legs, and his breath hitches. He wants to pull away and tell Jack to stop, but the way the kid’s staring at him makes him feel as though he’s trying to breathe underwater **.** Hesitantly, Aster reaches for Jack’s waist, falling into the rhythm he moves them both to.

 

Their chests are a hair’s breadth away from touching (their hips definitely are). The erratic pulse and flash of the strobe lights overhead makes things look like one of those strange stop motion movies, like he’s watching individual frames of a film in a succession rapid enough to see the black where they’re switching.

 

A hungry little mouth finds his neck and Aster gasps, his head rolling back and mouth sucking in air.

 

They shouldn’t be doing this.  _He_ shouldn’t be doing this. But maybe it’s time Aster stopped hating himself for things that happened so long ago. He’s sure he won’t make _those_ same mistakes with Jack. He won’t.

 

 He's sure of it.

 

Jack’s lips press heavily beneath his jaw, and Aster shivers, eyes opening when a hand closes around his wrist.

 

They’re both drunk, he reminds himself sternly. This won’t go far at all.

 

He sees those pink lips move but he doesn’t hear a thing. The drinks have gotten to him, he figures, and the music’s too loud. Aster just nods; whatever Jack’s asking, it can’t be anything terrible. The kid just beams in response, grabbing Aster’s hand and leading him to an unoccupied table.

 

There, Jack slides into Aster’s lap and curls up against his chest, his arms again going around Aster’s neck. It feels better than it should, better than Aster could have possibly imagined. He holds Jack in return, and a loose, drunken giggle escapes his lips when Jack nuzzles into the ticklish part of his neck. He lifts his hand for another glass (what did he even order? he doesn’t remember what it is exactly, but it’s thick and tastes _strong_ ) and drinks from it, feeling the alcohol further numb his mind.  

 

It’s amazing how he can feel Jack’s smile against his skin, and how his heart beats in time to the flutter of the dark eyelashes that rest beneath his ear.

 

He finds himself imagining the two of them in his apartment, hidden deep in the folds of his blankets. He imagines waking up to find Jack snuggled against him, smiling vaguely in his sleep.

 

“Aster.” Jack whispers, and he jumps, surprised to have that voice so close to his ear.

 

Looking up, he realizes the youth has slid off his lap and is swaying to the beat again, straddling his legs. It’s a lap dance, and if he doesn’t stop soon Aster’s going to be sporting a rather difficult to explain erection.

 

“Mate, don’t-“

 

There’s a quick as lightning kiss to his lips and Jack pulls back just as fast, grinning wide. “It’s okay.” He says. The roll of his hips underneath those tight-fitting jeans is hypnotic.

 

“Stop.” Aster says weakly, but Jack keeps at it, moving in to hold Aster’s face between his hands and look him dead in the eye, and he’s _still_ dancing, dipping low to brush his hips against Aster’s crotch.

 

There are other people watching now. Someone behind Aster lets out an encouraging whoop, and the sudden flash of discomfort he feels is almost enough to explain why he yanks Jack back into his lap.

 

It’s not because he doesn’t want other people to see Jack like this, so drunk and obviously besotted with him that he’s willing to make a fool of himself in public.

 

No, Aster thinks, not noticing the way Jack’s eyes brighten sharp as stars. It’s not because he wants Jack in his arms, wants those eyes and hands and that attention only on him, for him. It’s not because he wants Jack for himself, doesn’t want anyone else to see.

 

(there’s a flash of alarm and recognition somewhere in the back of his mind, but the alcohol has by now effectively numbed his mind. he doesn’t react to it at all.)

 

“Just relax, dude.” Jack says. His breath fans gently across Aster’s lips, and when he kisses him it feels strange, like Aster’s been disconnected from his body and he can’t feel a thing.

 

What had he been thinking just now?

 

“I am.” He mumbles in response. “I’m-“

 

“Shh.”

 

Jack nestles further into Aster’s arms. He’s dimly aware of the words coming from the kid’s mouth, but they’re so soft and buried underneath the loud music that he understands nothing.

 

What triggers the disgust is how small Jack feels in his arms.

 

(now, the alarm in his mind grows and lances through his focus like a harpoon, stealing away his calm.)

 

“Get off.” Aster hisses, going rigid in his seat.

 

Jack pulls away and his eyes are wide and shining with hurt and fear. “Aster?”

 

“I said get off.” Aster watches as Jack all but leaps off of his lap, his hands trembling. The sudden ice in his voice is jarring to them both, and they stare at each other like strangers trapped in a lion's den.

 

Whatever odd energy they’d shared moments ago is flat and dead now. There’s nothing there, only Aster’s numbing disorientation and Jack’s confusion. Distantly, Aster thinks he’d feel shame and guilt if it weren’t for the way he can hear the blood rushing in his mind, loud and weird.

 

“I’m sorry.” Jack stammers. “Aster, I’m sorry. I’m- I- I didn’t mean to-“

 

It’s funny that his stammering annoys him more than the loud music does. Aster winces and looks away. They should be getting home. Wherever this headache came from, it’s taken hold of him fast.

  
“Aster?”

 

He feels cool hands on his cheeks. “You look sick. Are you-“

 

“I’m fine.” Aster snaps. He ignores the way Jack’s hands are still trembling and clenches his teeth.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

A noise of frustration leaves Aster’s throat and those hands pull away as though fearful of a shove. “I’m _fine_.” He says again, his voice a sharp snap of annoyance.

 

“Okay.” Jack says, and if Aster were watching him he’d see the way the hope in Jack’s eyes has deflated dramatically. “I’ll, uh-bathroom.” He stammers, and disappears.

 

Aster leans back in his chair, letting his eyes unfocus a little as he stares dreamily up at the ceiling. There’s a tiny prickling of anger and guilt in the back of his mind, but for what? At what? He really can’t tell what to think anymore, so he stops.

 

The music’s loudness doesn’t bother him that much anymore. It feels like a dull throbbing in the back of his skull, much like when one has suffered a blow to the back of the head.

 

Is that why he’s on the floor?

 

A pair of hands grips his shoulders gently, and immediately Aster moves to shrug this Good Samaritan off him. He slurs out a sharp ‘go away, don’t need your help,’ but this stranger seems intent on helping him. The hands pull him up onto his feet, and Aster’s far too tired now to say anything. Turning to swear this intruder off, Aster catches a glimpse of long shadowy fingers on his shoulder and his face goes pale.

 

“No.” He says, sluggishly trying to shake this intruder off of him. But his voice goes unheard, and those nearby that noticed his fall only see a drunken idiot being helped to his feet by a kind stranger. “Go away-“

 

“He’s fine.” The man holding him is telling someone else, and a hand pats his cheek. “Aren’t you, Aster? Here, let’s get you home. You really shouldn’t have drunk so much.”

 

The man takes Aster’s arm, slings it around his shoulders and puts a hand on his waist to keep him up. He pulls him out of the club, and when they pass the bouncer, he sees a flicker of concern pass his old friend’s usually impassable face.

 

“You okay, dude?” The bouncer says, moving slightly away from the roped line and holding out a hand to stop them.

 

A sly voice curls around his ear. “ _Reassure him or I’ll have your boy shot_.”

 

Aster bites back a frightened sob and forces himself to swallow the fear and bile that have risen high up in his throat. He has to think rationally, despite the nausea and dizziness that sweep past his mind. He has to think of Jack.

 

“ ‘m fine, just a little drunk. Hey-would you give these to Jack for me?”

 

He struggles to fish his keys and wallet from his pocket despite the way his captor hisses low in displeasure. He hands them to the bouncer who eyes them warily, squinting as he tries to remember who exactly Jack is.

 

“Kid with the white hair, right?”

 

“That’s the one.” Aster says, and the snarl in his ear lets him know he’ll pay dearly for this later. For now, he knows Jack will be alright (if not hurt and worried), and that helps him stay upright. His head pulses with hot pain. “Tell him to go home for me.”

 

The bouncer watches the two of them closely and Aster doesn’t know if he wants him to notice the fear in his eyes or if he wants him to wave them along. The latter will mean safety for Jack but danger for him, and first will result in much worse for them all.

 

“Okay.” He replies, and grins at Aster. “See you, man. And hey, come by again sometime. It’s been boring without you here.”

 

“I’ll do my best.” Aster mumbles, stumbling a little when Pitch gives him a tug and pulls him along.  “Bye.”

 

“Your bravery is admirable.” His captor says as he leads Aster to a dark car parked on the street.  

 

There’s no one around. Aster wants to scream, but his throat feels thick.

 

 “What will you do to keep the boy safe, I wonder?”

 

The nausea’s caught up to Aster now. His head droops involuntarily against the man’s shoulder and his breathing has gone slow. “Anything.” He whispers, his voice stuck in a slurred mumble.  “Just leave him alone.”

 

For several minutes Aster finds himself blacking out continuously, his vision dotted with multicolored shapes and odd, warped shadows. The terror in him has dulled to a quiet whimper in the back of his throat, and his savior-turned captor laughs, his voice low and sweetly victorious.

 

Carefully, Kozmotis Pitchiner straps Aster into a dark car’s backseat, muttering reassurances into his ear as he works. He wants to tell himself he’s dreaming, that upon blinking he’ll wake in his room and Jack will be in his guest room or probably perched on the couch, watching early cartoons and eating waffles.

 

But then he’d be lying to himself. That would be keeping up the walls of determined ignorance and lies and delusions he’d once worked so hard to maintain, all of which Jack’s arrival several months ago has nearly undone.

 

He can’t regress to that now.

 

Especially because Pitchiner’s fingers brushing against his skin are real, startling new fear into Aster’s waning lucidity. Not even the best liar could delude themselves out of a situation like this.

 

He struggles to stay awake, intently avoiding the gaze of those eerie golden eyes.

 

“I missed seeing you like this, Aster.” Pitchiner says as a greeting, stroking Asters sweat-worked brow before he closes the door.

 

(he’s bound at the wrists now. the windows are tinted and neither door in the back has a lock.)

 

Aster passes out as the car’s engine purrs to life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you got roofie'd, son.


	9. coins in the slot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's three twenty-eight AM, and Jack has been here for five hours now, anxiously awaiting his friend's return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time I take this long with an update, please punch me in the face. TW for rape/blood.

How stupidly fitting that it’s raining outside, Jack thinks. He might as well be in some goddamn Nicholas Sparks movie.

 

Aster’s studio is silent and moody as the rain is outside.

 

He looks down out the window, sitting in his usual perch at Aster's studio windowsill, bare feet resting on the couch. There is no one in the street below. Though the rain is light, the sky is dark and there's a slight chill to the air. It's three twenty-eight AM, and Jack has been here for five hours now, anxiously awaiting his friend's return.

 

Now that he's had some time to sober up a little (and really, he hadn't been that drunk in the first place-he'd been so heavily encouraged by Aster's bold stare and the pounding music that he'd thought there'd be no harm in being a little forward, getting in closer than before and tasting Aster when he had the chance), he's been able to think on what transpired at the club.

 

It shouldn’t be possible for someone to fuck up so bad, but he did, and now Aster hasn’t come home for hours and Jack’s worried. Maybe he’s silly for being so nervous but he can’t help it. He doesn't have any way of contacting Aster like this; they'd been in talks of getting him a cellphone (and the fact that Aster considered doing that for him, getting him something so expensive and actually caring enough for him that he _wants_ him to have a viable means of communication) before, but with this recent behavior will Aster even be able to look him in the eye?

 

Aster’s wallet and keys lie in his lap. The wallet’s cheap leather is crumpled from the way Jack clutched it so tightly in his sleep last night, nestled in Aster’s sheets.

 

It’d felt odd sleeping alone in his own room when the apartment was so lacking in Aster’s presence. He’d gone to the Australian’s bed for comfort, nearly drowning himself in the sheets and holding onto the wallet like it was Aster’s own hand.

 

The bouncer told him he left with another man- that should be explanation enough of what he’s doing.

 

Jealousy stirs deep in his heart and Jack tries not to think too hard on it. What Aster does is his business. They may be close friends and he may want something more, but if that’s not what Aster wants he needs to stop being such a stubborn idiot and respect that.

 

But it hurts, and it has hurt for so long.

 

He rests his head against the window's glass and thinks of Aster.

 

He loves him because there has never been anyone in his life who has done so much for him. He loves Aster because he is kind, because he cares, and because the way he smiles is slow; reluctant at first, as though he's afraid to have fun. It spreads slow as molasses across his lips until he lets out a harsh little laugh and eventually gives in and beams. Jack loves seeing it; he feels such an odd little thrill of triumph whenever his terrible jokes pull a laugh out of Aster, and better still are the ones that come from deep in his belly, where Aster is reduced to loud guffaws and wiping at his eyes.

 

He has his faults: he comes home drunk when he's had bad critiques or a long day at work. He gets so irritable that he snaps harshly at Jack and tells him to shut up. He leaves his dirty paintbrushes scattered on the floor sometimes, and already several times he has accidentally left paint smeared on doorhandles, much to Jack's chagrin. When heavily concentrated on his artwork, he is often distracted and it takes several calls of his name to rouse him from the depths of his focused mind.

 

These are all things Jack loves.

 

The day goes by slow and he falls asleep early, again sneaking into Aster’s bed and smelling him deep on his pillow.

 

Not surprisingly, he dreams of Aster.

 

This time, they’re doing nothing but lying together, clothed and wrapped in a soft embrace. Their conversation is nothing but silent murmuring and gentle caresses. Even so, he wakes up halfway through the night with an erection, and it’s with shame and silent, lonely tears that he strokes himself to completion. He makes sure not to leave a mess on Aster’s bed, but the soft cry he releases at the end is desperate and afraid, and he’s sure the neighbors heard it.

 

Not that it matters.

 

Because he doesn't have a cellphone and Aster's has disappeared with him, Jack pulls on his hoodie and goes out in search of a payphone.

 

It's a short search but a boring one nonetheless. This late, there's only a few stragglers outside, and what cars pass him by are just unkempt ghosts of the usual morning traffic. He ducks into a 24/7 coin laundromat. There's one other person inside, and they sit in the row of plastic scratched chairs clutching their phone, probably playing Angry Birds.

 

Wiping down the reciever with his sleeve, Jack mechanically drops coins into the designated slot and punches in Aster's number. He waits and waits, but the phone goes on ringing until Aster's voicemail comes on and Jack's heart flickers at the sound of his voice.

 

“G'day.” He says cheerily, “You've reached. E. A Bunnymund. I'm not available right now, so leave me a message and I'll get right back to you.”

 

Jack clutches the phone's cord, sweating in his hoodie and biting his lip. “Aster?” He says, hating the way he sounds like a lost child. He must look like one too, dressed in an overlarge sweater and ratty sneakers, clutching the phone like a child would a mother's hand. “I just wanted to check on you and make sure you're okay. I didn't see you leave, and you looked kind of sick last night...”

 

He trails off and starts again quickly, afraid of sounding despondent. “I have your stuff. The bouncer told me you left with someone, so I'm guessing you're alright. Just- come home, okay? I'm sorry about what I did- at the club- I didn't mean to make you angry. Come back and I'll explain everything, okay?”

 

Slamming his finger down on the metallic tab to end the call, Jack wants desperately to call again. He wants to leave more voicemails, explain himself over the phone without fear of those watchful green eyes, afraid of that disdainful look reappearing in them as they'd done the night before.

 

He wants to call again, but he only has enough change for one more call, and this is one that doesn't involve Aster.

 

The coins roll from his fingertips and down into the metal box, clunking heavily atop other coins inside the machine. He remembers the number easily, and prays briefly that it has not been changed.

 

He needs to hear a familiar voice. Anything that will keep him stable. 

 

The phone rings four times before it's picked up, and suddenly he is connected to the other side of the world.

 

“Hello?”

 

Jack's breath is shaky. It wisps unsteadily from his nostrils and mouth like remnants of a fretful dream. “It's me.”

 

The voice on the other end pauses. “How are you?”

 

“Good.” Jack shoves his free hand into his pocket, palms suddenly sweaty. “I, uh... I'm in California.”

 

“I didn't ask where you were.”

 

Funny how the chill in that voice never seemed to let up, icy daggers of blame and disgust that slipped like coins down Jack's back, into his skin and lodging in his spine.

 

“Is this about money?”

 

Now he's the angry one. He grabs the receiver hard enough to make the old plastic creak. “ _No_ \- you know that's not why. That's _never_ why. I just wanted to know how-”

 

“How what?” The voice interrupts, sliding cruelly into his ear like clammy water. “How we are? How _she_ is? How do you think she is, Jack?”

 

There's a pause, then the sound of a throat clearing, making way for another string of barbed wire words.

 

“Stop calling us.” Jack's mother hisses, and he flinches when she slams the phone down and the line goes dead.

 

Shaking, Jack puts down the receiver and makes his way out of the laundromat, keeping his head down. There's nothing and no one to save face from, but even alone he feels ashamed, and so he stares at his feet the whole walk back. The pavement is dirty and cool under his feet and he'd forgotten he wasn't wearing any shoes when he left the apartment, how had that happened?

 

He doesn't cry, not until he gets home and has crawled into Aster's bed and the smell of musty, ink-stained bedsheets is enough to relax the rigid line of his shoulders and the way they've hunched by his ears. They come down like an avalanche of unsteady boulders, and they shake as he weeps, alone and afraid of the empty world around him.

 

-

 

The air in this room is stifling; Aster feels sweat beading on his temple, behind his ears and between his thighs. He can feel the humidity in the room, thick like smoke erupting from a burning building.

 

“It’s been so long, Aster.”

 

A thick wave of nausea has him utterly disoriented; Aster feels as if he’s going to vomit. He would if he could force himself up, but his muscles feel so lax and jelly-like that he doesn’t trust himself to move. A serpent, black and thicker than his own arm, twists itself around his neck, coiling close until he can scarcely gasp for breath. His throat feels constricted. He takes shallow breaths, head lolling, eyes unopening.

 

“Do you still remember this, I wonder?”

 

He’s sure he’s imagining this familiar voice. There’s no way he could be hearing it again, not after so many years.

 

He’s so numb he doesn’t process the hands smoothing over his ribcage, the naked press of hips and a cock into his body, thrusting deep. He only lies there, almost completely motionless, eyes glazed over to the extent that he looks half dead.

 

He doesn’t register the lips that trail over his neck, that suck hard at his nipple and then bite painfully into his lower lip. He’ll remember this all later in nightmares so heavy he’ll forget to breathe, but for now he’s so drugged out of his mind that it all feels entirely too surreal to not be a nightmare, and so he takes it like that, sure that he’s only imagining all this in a bout of troubled sleep.

 

His body does react, however; he writhes a little, hips jerking traitorously in response to the stimulation he’s receiving. His breaths come in labored pants, and his hands clutch subconsciously at the sheets, at the sweaty body above him, one he once knew well.

 

The click of a camera echoes weirdly in his ears, agitating his already restless mind. He frowns and a discontent whine leaves his lips, unwittingly pressing his cheek into the hand that cups it.

 

“Poor thing.” The voice comes again, and it sounds soothing.

 

More clicks, all in rapid succession.

 

“Do you remember how I used to care for you, Aster? I loved you, you know.”

 

There’s no way he can summon the strength it takes to respond, much less to open his eyes and figure out where he is and what is happening. Aster lets himself drift in the haze of his mind instead. He thinks of Jack.

 

He remembers a fond memory: they'd been at the beach, and Jack had taken to lumping up misshapen fistfuls of wet sand and lobbing them at him until he'd taken cover in the salty waters. It had taken work, but he'd managed to trick Jack into the water with a calm demeanor. Once he had gotten close enough, Aster had grabbed him and cackled as he rubbed his hair into Jack's cheek, and the kid had gagged and sputtered at the clumps of sand that had fallen into his open mouth.

 

“Look at you smiling. You had your father's lips, you know. It was such a shame that he had to go.”

 

Somewhere in the disorientation that clogs his mind, Aster feels a tiny spark of recognition. His father?

 

Pitchiner pauses his murmurs to rut a little harder into Aster, grunting roughly. He stares intently at the drugged-out man below him, feeling nothing but sheer hatred and disgust. There is murderous intent in those coal-black eyes.

 

This goes on for what feels like hours. Pitch comes twice and coaxes three orgasms out of Aster. He documents it all with greedy clicks of his camera, taking the time to pose Aster like a figurine: he raises a thigh, wraps a limp hand around his cock, presses his head gently back into the sheet to give the impression of a breathless moan. These will all be developed later and sent off for use.

 

When Aster passes out again, he cannot help himself. He takes a knife from his drawer and slices neatly above his knee.

 

_'dream of me'_

 

Crudely done, the cuts bleed and Aster winces and grunts in his drugged stupor, unable to fully process the pain. He feels it like a tickle into his skin now, but when he wakes, and for the rest of his life, he will have this threat etched into him.

 

In the time it takes Pitchiner to shower, dress, and make coffee, Aster slowly comes awake. Sitting in the dingy kitchen of his temporary hideout and savoring his bitter drink, Pitchiner smiles as he hears the slow rousing, and then the terrified shout.

 

He dumps the rest of the coffee into the sink (cold coffee is never good) and enters the room, watching the slow slide of lucidity and alarm into his once-neighbor's eyes. This look on him is near orgasmic: such fear!

 

Aster swallows a little (there's a click in his throat- he must be terribly thirsty).

 

“Hello.” Pitchiner says. “Did you like your drinks last night?”

 

Taking a seat on the bed where Aster has been tied down, he smoothes out his long coat and crosses his leg, still ever the fastidious dresser. “God, you don't know how long I've been paying that stupid bartender to keep an eye out for you. He was quick to convince, he likes easy money.”

 

“Koz,” Aster whispers, his voice a mere scratch of its usual richness, “Why-”

 

“You are not to talk.” Pitchiner orders, and gestures down to Aster's wound. “Speak out of line and I will add more pretty modifications to your body. It'd be such a shame, you know how I always liked the way you looked.”

 

Aster's eyes take on a hint of rage, but he quells it nicely, eyes flickering down in disbelief at the words on his leg.

 

“I'll admit that our getaway was pure luck. I was expecting to be stopped by your stupid boy, or that oaf bouncer.” Pitchiner sees a flash of pain in Aster's eyes at the mention of Jack, and frowns. “Ah, yes. About the boy.”

 

He's been waiting so long to say these words, to have Aster like this again that he can't help the way he relishes each word on his tongue, speaking slow and deliberate to ensure full comprehension.

 

Taking on airs of boredom, Pitchiner leans back in his chair and pulls out his still bloody knife. Using his thumb and forefinger, he sluices the red off his blade and rubs it between them, inspecting it like a policeman would a driver's license.

 

“I am going to say this once and I will not repeat myself for your benefit.” He says. “Get rid of the boy. I don't care what it is you do- kick him out to the curb, go on some pathetic trip and leave him on the roadside. It doesn't matter to me. You'll have a week to do it, no more. Then,” He says, and feels his cock stirring excitedly in his pants, aroused at how well his plan has gone so far, “You'll report back to me, and we can finish this nonsensical feud once and for all.”

 

He raises his brows at Aster, whose face has gone pallid in fury.

 

“You're still hung up over her death, aren't you.” He accuses. “You still blamin' me for that? Is that why you're doing this? _To get back at me_?”

 

“My reasons are no concern of yours- not for now, at least.” Pitchiner snaps. The mention of his daughter has him visibly shaken: his hand clenches hard around his knife's grip, pointing it into Aster's tender thigh and making him yelp. “But I bet you'd like to know how your little family took to their numbers shrinking-” Aster lets out a choked sound of realization and he laughs, triumphant and bitter. “Oh _yes_ , that was _me_ killing them off. I'm surprised you didn't know already!”

 

He springs to his feet and puts the knife to Aster's neck. “Would you like to know how I did it?”

 

Aster snarls at him. “You've gone mad!” He shouts. “They did _nothing_ to you!”

 

“As if that matters!” Pitchiner screams back, and it is so tempting to just slit Aster's throat here and now and be done with it. But that is not part of the plan. He must wait.

 

“As if that matters.” He says again, gulping large breaths and rectifying his manner quick as a snap of his fingers. Dropping the knife into the bedside table drawer, he wipes his bloodied hand on Aster's thigh, and realizes he has grown bruisingly hard from the argument's fervor.

 

One last time won't hurt.

 

His hand goes into the drawer again, and out comes an already prepared needle. Flicking the cap off, Pitchiner perches on the bed again, his free hand unbuttoning his pants and coat.

 

Aster struggles, but he is weak from waking and it is not enough; it takes a few minutes for the drug to take effect. His neck bleeds from the needle's scratches, from where he'd fought and twisted away and Pitchiner's jabs had caught skin but failed to penetrate.

 

As he fades, his cheek falls again into Pitchiner's outstretched palm, and his eyes blur with meek terror.

 

“Why Jack?” He mumbles stupidly, eyes drooping.

 

Pitchiner tosses his coat onto the nearby chair, shivering a little at the chill in the room. He shouldn't have left the windows open, it sounds like rain outside and he promised to return the apartment in good condition. The drapes will be soaked through, and the water will stain the windowsills' wood.

 

“I don't care for lovesick brats running around underfoot.” He says dismissively. As he puts out the room's light, he again considers the possibility that Jack will be a problem. It isn't likely, he thinks, but if he shows potential for trouble, he'll have the boy dispatched.

 

Things must go smoothly, if this is to be his last act.

 


	10. sixth sense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He cannot keep the past bottled away forever, and there would be no use in that, not when it has come surging back up past the glass lip like bubbles and fizz in a shook-up bottle of Coke. He needs to face it head on and stop it from ruling over what good there is left in his life before it's too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lost some good bits in here while editing (hurr durr i am a dum) so hopefully this still reads well. Sorry for upsetting you all with the previous chapter, I know it was awful.

 

Aster wakes in a bright room, and it takes him all of five seconds to realize he is in a hospital.

 

He can't inhale properly; wincing, Aster bats sluggishly at his nose and his hand jolts in surprise when it comes into contact with a plastic tube, which he promptly tugs out of his nostril.

 

Sitting up hurts like hell. Sharp pain lances up his side hotly and he hisses, throwing back his sheets to find that he has been dressed in a papery hospital gown. Beneath that, he is naked and bruised, though most of it is covered in bandages and gauze.

 

“Feeling better?”

 

The nurse who's been watching him smiles a little as Aster jumps in surprise, letting the sheet drop back onto his body. He's probably just an intern, some newbie kid told to watch over the patients in less danger of death. Aster stares at him closely for a minute, remembering his own days in pale blue scrubs and white squeaky sneakers before he'd finally put his foot down and his father had relented.

 

“What happened to me?” He asks.

 

The nurse picks up a clipboard hanging off Aster's bed and reads off of it importantly, glad to oblige. “Found lying alone outside a cafe in San Diego. Noted to be unresponsive and unconscious. Presumed drug overdose on arrival, found to be perfectly healthy but suffering several external wounds.”

 

“I'm sorry-what? Lying outside a cafe?”

 

The nurse flips through some sheets before setting the clipboard down and nods. “I'm guessing one of their employees went in early and found you lying out there. Do you have a history of drug usage?”

 

Aster closes his eyes, rubbing at his pounding temple. “Yes. Been clean three years.”

 

“Good for you.” The nurse beams, and Aster wants to roll his eyes.

 

Then his expression turns more serious. The nurse calms his fidgeting hands by placing them on the ends of the stethoscope around his neck and tugging. He has bad news.

 

“While we were cleaning your wounds, you became conscious for a few minutes. You vomited and showed signs of aggression, and we had to tie you down for a bit. After that you became a little more passive: just mumbled out a name before knocking out again.”

 

Aster doesn't have to ask what name he called out. He's thinking of its owner even now, wondering if Jack is safe and home.

 

“We ran some tests on your vomit- haha I know, gross right?- and found traces of Rohypnol.”

 

He offers Aster a sorry smile. “My theory is date-rape. It was obvious you'd been drinking heavily. We found some semen when we were cleaning you up as well, but we're not sure if it was a result of voluntary intercourse or not.”

 

He prattles on for a couple of minutes, assuring Aster that discretion will be used if he wants to ask for a rape-kit, and that if he has any idea of who did it and where they are more than happy to call the police for him.

 

Aster's not listening. Clutching at his sheets, the memories come spilling slowly back into his mind, slick and sinister and dark.

 

Remarkably, this does not upset him so much as the thought of Jack, alone and nervous in their apartment does. It can be said that this is the result of experience: several times he has woken in a situation like this, and though the memory of it still spikes fear in his heart he knows that now, with careful steps, these same scenarios can be avoided.

 

Aster has been through this before. He can handle it. There is much he needs to explain and little he wants to, but he will find a way.

 

He remembers what he said at the club: harsh movements and clipped words, Jack's look of fear. His sensitive, shining eyes and the way the bright, happy look about him had flattened to nothing in mere seconds, Aster's own handiwork.

 

He needs to apologize. He needs Jack to know.

 

“I need you to call someone for me.” He says abruptly, cutting the nurse off.

 

-

 

A shower helps calm him in the morning.

 

Jack slept heavily last night, his eyelids made heavy by the constant torrent of tears that has plagued him since Aster's disappearance. He should be back by now, but maybe he's gone straight to school. Jack doesn't blame Aster for wanting to avoid him, but the thought still hurts.

 

Just after Jack steps out of the shower (Aster's shampoo smells faintly of citrus, strongly of some spice and outdoors; it clings to him, comforts him almost as well as having Aster with him would) there's a polite knock at the door.

 

His heart leaps onto his tongue, and he skids into his room, tossing on his boxers and any combination of shorts and a T-shirt he can find before running back to the door and throwing it open.

 

But it's not Aster on the doormat.

 

“Jack?”

 

Aster's neighbor is a tall, stocky Russian called North. He's boisterous and friendly, and though Jack's only spoken to him a handful of times he already knows what company he works for, how much he makes and when he's going to get that promotion he's been after. But these aren't bad things: the man is obviously a hard worker and pleased with the direction in which his life is going. From what Aster has told him, he is the definition of a good neighbor.

 

“Oh-” Jack says, and makes quick work of smiling politely, hiding where his eager, terrified smile had fallen into a crease of disappointment. “Hey, North.”

 

“Morning.” The older man says, smiling hastily. His English is broken up, but Jack understands him just fine. “Listen, I just get call from hospital. They have Aster there. Said they call me because you don't have a phone.”

 

The _hospital_. Jack goes weak at the knees; he flings an arm out to grasp the doorframe, his view of North and the building complex's wall behind him go blurry.

 

“Is- is he okay?” He asks unsteadily.

 

“He wouldn't say.” North answers, and pats Jack's shoulder reassuringly. He does not notice how Jack's knees buckle further underneath the weight of his enormous palm. “He sounded okay. He wanted me to give you a lift.”

 

Jack runs back into the apartment. He grabs Aster's messenger bag and stuffs the Australian's keys and wallet inside, and tosses in a bit of whatever he can find in the kitchen. When he runs back to the door, North is standing there with his own keys in hand, having just locked his apartment.

 

“Ready?” He asks, and Jack nods, following him to the elevator.

 

The drive to the hospital is silent, but not unfriendly. North drives quickly, taking every shortcut he knows that will lead them to Aster.

 

When they arrive, he pulls up to the front of the building and nods to Jack. “You go ahead. I find parking, will take forever.”

 

“Thanks.” Jack breathes, unclipping his seatbelt and giving North a harried smile.

 

So he grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder, walking hastily into the hospital's busy front entrance. He endures a frustrating handful of minutes at the front desk, drumming his fingers nervously until he is directed to room 306 on the third floor, where patient E. A. Bunnymund is situated.

 

Each step on the linoleum floor makes Jack's heart throb a little harder. He forces himself to slow down when gurneys and doctors and nurses pass, and when they've gone by he picks up the pace again, so _nearly there_ he can almost sense Aster nearby.

 

And when he breezes into the room like a seabird swooping in for the water, breathless and seemingly windswept himself, Aster is asleep.

 

Asleep and breathing, looking a little banged up but perfectly, wonderfully _safe_.

 

He drops the bag at his feet and himself into the chair at Aster's bedside. His hand flies out gently, and with a soft flutter of fingers he has his palm pressed to Aster's cheek, where he can feel stubble pricking into his skin and where his pinkie fits neatly behind his jaw.

 

Like this, he waits until Aster wakes, snaking his other hand onto the bed and grasping Aster's tightly.

 

I I I I I I

 

When Aster wakes, it's with a simple blink and flexing of his jaw, a muted yawn into his fist. It's so quiet Jack doesn't notice it from where he's resting his head against the bed's arm-rails, and he sits up immediately when he feels Aster's hand on his shoulder.

 

For a moment Jack sees a wild flash of panic in Aster's eyes (he is still waking- is he remembering something from his attack, or is he just startled to see Jack here so soon?), and then his fingers curl in slightly, squeezing him as though to make sure he is solid and real. When Aster smiles, it's shaky but vibrant with gratitude.

 

“I'm sorry.” he says, just as Jack blurts out the same.

 

Guilt falls away from them both like drying sand on baking skin, and they spend most of their time in the hospital in silence, holding each other or speaking volumes with their hands, which are connected and laced together by the fingertips, lying innocently in Aster's lap.

 

Aster is kept in the hospital for two days, and that whole time he spends deciding on what to do. As he talks to the doctor and that nurse, he thinks over it in the back of his mind. They keep him in the hospital to make sure the slices into his skin have healed cleanly and that there is no infection. The largest one, an apparent stab into his side, is thankfully shallow. There are bruises, but those will fade. No one has an explanation for the chilling words carved into his leg. Aster does not offer one.

 

He doesn't tell Jack what happened. He saw the look on the kid's face when the doctor had lifted Aster's bandages to check on his wounds, the way his lips had trembled when he'd caught sight of the nightmare words scrawled sharply into his skin. The kid has already gone through so much, he doesn't need more cause to worry- and _there_ , that's another thing.

 

He knows about Jack's origins, but not enough. That is another thing they will need to discuss. It's evident there are troubles back home for him, and Aster wants to help. They are both victims of things larger than them, of things that start out innocent and beautiful and end up distorted and cruel. When Jack says goodbye and North drives him home, he sees a slight trace of fear crawl back into his eyes, and knows that Jack fears loneliness just as much as he does.

 

They will help each other.

 

In time, he knows Jack will press him for answers, and he begins to prepare himself for that. He cannot keep the past bottled away forever, and there would be no use in that, not when it has come surging back up past the glass lip like bubbles and fizz in a shook-up bottle of Coke.

 

For now, he is content knowing that Jack is safe, having him near and holding his hand as he apologizes, over and over again. He does not think about what he remembers of his assault, or what Pitch had snarled into his ear before shoving that needle back into his throat. There will be time for that later. He'll plan what to do and explain to Jack later, when he does not still feel this simple, enormous pleasure of having Jack beside him, seeing him smile shyly at their touching hands.

 

He has already neglected this, _Jack_ , for so long. He could have died yesterday at Pitch's hands. He has no more time to waste, not for this.

 

He decides on telling Jack something else instead.

 

-

 

On the second day, before he is released from the hospital, things begin to fall into place, and they feel right. Aster knows simply because he can _sense_ it. It is one of those days that he knows he'll be able to recall with ease in the years to come. Today feels like a game-changer, the day where  a handful of words will forever grasp their lives and twist them abruptly around, facing them in separate directions than the ones in which they'd begun. This is the day to make things right, he knows, and though it is under strange circumstances nothing has ever felt more sure to him. 

 

Certain of this, he begins a new plan, one of confession.

 

The doctors have let him alone for now, and Jack has closed the door to his room for privacy. The room is bright; the West coast sun blazes through the window's hot glass pane like a nosy neighbor. Hope whispers under the doorway in the form of nurse's sneakers, touching gently on the recently mopped floor and rising up again with a sound that comes from their scrubs like feathers brushing together for lift off.

 

Aster looks at Jack, so blunt in his gaze that Jack feels everyone else in the building just vanish, not one of these clueless strangers privy to the revelations that are coming slowly undone from Aster's iron-bound mind- which, coincidentally, is also being undone at last in the best of ways. He can almost see it, the way Aster's shoulders go loose and his breaths become deeper, the way his temple smoothes out as the creases of worry in his skin lessen.

 

“You know, I-”

 

Jack moves a little closer. His heart is in his throat, whimpering out a limp beat of fear, anticipation, _hope_.

 

Aster laughs to himself, eyes downcast to his hands in his lap and then immediately up again to Jack's. “-It's funny, all this time. I've been lyin' to myself to keep you safe. Thought if I took on your advances...thought I'd turn the same as him. That's why I was so stern with you, mate. Kept you at an arm's distance to keep myself from wanting you too much.”

 

Jack licks his dry lips, settling carefully into the bedside chair. “You were scared you'd do the same things he did.” He says.

 

He doesn't know what those exact things were, but he can guess. As much as it bothers him, not knowing, he knows enough to realize that Aster is the victim of something he will perhaps never want to reveal. He won't prod him for a story, not until he's ready.

 

Nodding, Aster settles back against the pillows. He stares up at the ceiling as he talks, hands lying limp in his lap, richly and deeply tanned against the sterile white sheets.

 

“I was afraid I'd fall into the same pattern. You gotta understand, mate, he was in my life for so long, and when we- he kept me like that for almost three years. It got to the point where I started expecting it, believing I deserved the abuse. I couldn't bear the possibility, the mere _thought_ of doing the same to you.”

 

Jack realizes Aster has said too much there just as the Australian does; they both blink in soft surprise at this short revelation and Jack wonders what he means by 'kept'. But he doesn't ask, not yet.

 

“But you didn't.” Jack opposes, his voice clear. “You can't be that blind. You've done so much for me when no one else would, not even my own parents. You kept me safe and way more than that.”

 

The smile on Aster's lips is wan, not quite reaching his eyes. “I reckon so. I just... I was so afraid I didn't let myself get a full look at everything, at what I was doing.”

 

He grips the hospital bed's side-rail with one trembling hand and his bandaged side with the other, sucking in a breath as he struggles onto his side. Alarmed, Jack moves to help him and is declined. He sinks slowly back into his chair, biting his lip as Aster settles onto his side, looking Jack carefully in the eyes.

 

“The truth is I'm crazy about you, mate.” Aster says, and Jack can do nothing to stop the startled welling of tears in his eyes, or the way they break past his control and wet his cheeks. “I love you, and I owe you so much.”

 

That's how it happens. Aster's confession, professed over the steady (sometimes quickening) beep of his heart monitor, is the sweetest, simplest thing Jack's ever heard. He's suddenly on his feet, not saying a word as he steps into Aster's outstretched arm.

 

Aster pulls him in, and Jack closes his eyes. The white bedsheets rustle crisply between them, cool against Jack's neck. He buries his face into the crook of Aster's shoulder and cries, gripping a handful of Aster's hair and shirt. A warm hand strokes up his neck and into his hair in response, rubbing reassuringly at his scalp.

 

He thinks of something to say and fails horrendously.

 

“Shh.” Aster says to him. He leans back onto the bed and pulls Jack down with him, shifting to allow the younger man to climb in and curl up there with him. He holds Jack close, tucking him into weak arms. “Shh. It's alright, love.”

 

Jack has never heard such words, not addressed to him. He has never felt such simple, starburst love, an emotion which pulls hard at his heartstrings and leaves them trembling wildly like leaves caught in a hurricane. 

 

_Love._

 

_It's alright._

 

When the nurse returns, he is at first vehement about getting Jack off the bed, but Aster gives him such a pitiful look that he falters and goes sulking back to check on his other patients.

 


	11. blueberry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are still shy about it; they touch, but tentatively, their kisses are small, quick. It seems that without the hospital's stark white walls and the bright bright sun warming them, they are a little less bold. It's something that will lessen with time, but Aster wonders if his palms will ever cease that giddy tingling whenever they brush across any part of Jack.

A cold sweat breaks Aster out of his sleep; a glance at the alarm clock tells him it's two in the morning. Grunting, he untangles himself from his sheets and sits up, and the last he remembers of his dream before it slips quickly away is an ashen hand grasping his neck and a sharp stab of pain.

 

 _Time is running out,_ he thinks as he rubs his hand over his temple, fingers wiping away the perspiration.

 

But it isn't, not yet.

 

He goes into the kitchen and downs a glass of cold water. It relieves the dryness of his throat wonderfully, but not the worry that pushes at the edges of his skull. Aster knows he's just feeling paranoia. He has been given a paid week off work. He'd received the call from his boss; he'd said he was sorry to hear Aster had been hurt, and that his coworkers all hoped he'd recover fast and safe. But Aster hadn't yet made any sort of warning call to his workplace, nor managed to let anyone other than Jack and North know that he was injured.

 

Pitch is one step ahead of him.

 

Refilling the glass, Aster takes a moment to compose himself before entering Jack's room.

 

He's glad they're no longer in the hospital. In the warm privacy of his own apartment, Aster feels more self-assured, less harried by pressing doctors and nurses and the endless beeping of white machines. Here, there is no sound but the vaguest rustle of traffic on the street below and the hum of the refrigerator. Here, there is nothing but Jack, and Aster likes that.

 

Correction: loves it. Loves _him_.

 

It still feels strange and new to think in such terms. To suddenly have open access to something he has denied himself for so long is like a solid rush of ecstasy through his mind, wiping everything clean and replacing it with Jack, Jack, Jack. He has replayed that single golden moment from the hospital, their kiss, what feels like a thousand times in his mind, tried carving every tiny detail into his memory for safekeeping.

 

The room is softly lit by the lamp on his bedside table, and the window's curtains flutter gently in the night's chill. Frowning, Aster sets down the glass and immediately goes to the window, shuttering it carefully and drawing the curtains tight. He doesn't know if Pitchiner has hired people to watch them. He may be paranoid more than ever now, but he cannot let them get in on this conversation, or into Jack's room at all.

 

“Aster?” Jack asks. Lying on his stomach, he's busily going through the stacks of photographs they'd had developed earlier in the month. He glances at him over his shoulder, grinning and patting the bedspace beside him. “Can't sleep?”

 

“Something like that.” Aster responds. He sets down his water and climbs in. Lying on his belly (there are faint prickles of pain along his thigh and neck but he can stand it, the cuts have been treated well), he rests a cheek against his arm and gazes fondly down at Jack as he flips a photo and scrawls a date onto the back. “You're gonna need an album for those.”

 

Jack turns to stare at him incredulously, excited. “Can we make one?”

 

His excitement, just like every other thing about Jack, is infectious. Aster couldn't ever deny him anything. “Of course.”

 

“Sweet.” Jack says, beaming down at the glossy photographs. “We're gonna make the most bitchingly awesome album.”

 

Laughing, Aster moves a little closer, his eyes catching the topmost image. In it, he is wearing an embarrassingly touristy ensemble Jack tricked him into (he'd been promised a week free of Jack whining about the air-conditioning being on too low- with that boy's chatterbox mouth, can you blame him?). The shirt, flip-flops, and plastic sunglasses are all themed for the day's holiday, striped red and blue and studded with stars. Jack stands beside him, baring pearly whites and clutching a fistful of sparklers.

 

“Crikey, I can't believe I let you talk me into those glasses.” He groans. “Bloody awful things.”

 

“You liked it.” Jack teases, nudging Aster with a thin elbow. “You even kept the glasses!”

 

Aster's denial is vehement, though now it is apparent that Jack has been rifling through his studio because said glasses are tucked away, never to be used again, in one of his paint cabinets where he thought no one would ever find them. “Cause you made me!”

 

They go on like this for hours. Giggling like toddlers and making a ruckus of their banter, they go through the three packets of photographs, scribbling accusations, dates, locations and little doodles onto the back of each.

 

Aster's in the midst of promising to take Jack to the local art supplies store when he falters, catching sight of the way Jack's eyes have gone a little wet.

 

He acts before he thinks; quickly, Aster takes Jack's cheek in his palm and draws him close, kissing him soft on the lips. It's the second time he's done so since they left the hospital. Jack's skin is freckled and unbearably soft on his rough hands.

 

Jack's fingers trail through his hair and down T-shirt. When Aster pulls away, his cheeks are wet, though he's not sure if it's from Jack's tears or his own. Neither of them remarks on how at ease they are, so near and affectionate that it seems they have been this way all along.

 

“Is it weird that I feel like I'm dreaming?” He asks, letting out a small, watery laugh. “It's just... I haven't -” He cuts himself off, looking frustrated as he grapples for the right words.

 

“Shh.” Aster tells him, stroking a hand along Jack's shoulders. “I know what you mean.”

 

Jack falls silent, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He turns to lie on his side, taking Aster's hand from his cheek and gripping it gently with his own, like he is making sure Aster is not a mere apparition. He reaches for Aster's jaw, thumb ghosting past the scabbing needle-made cuts on his neck.

 

“What did he _do_ to you?”

 

Aster takes his hand, pulls it away from his neck as he tries to hide his shudder. “Nothing I can't fix.” He says, too lightly.

 

They haven't talked about what really happened. Aster knows he should, but he is firmly reluctant on the matter. He doesn't want to bring up any mention of Pitch into their conversations; he doesn't want that shadowy fear to ruin Jack's bright smiles.

 

“They told me you were drugged.” Jack whispers. “It was- he was there? At the bar?”

 

Jaw going tight, Aster nods. “Don't- it doesn't matter now.” He says, like that's going to smooth over the whole matter and let it lie sleeping for now.

 

“Aster.” Jack says, eyes going serious, “You know you can tell me anything. I won't judge you. I won't tell anyone.”

 

Aster closes his eyes, sighs a little when Jack moves in to touch their temples together. Jack's breath is cold on his lips, smells like sleep and peppermint. “I know. I just- let's not talk about it, not for now.”

 

“Okay.” Jack moves up for another kiss, for one that feels fearful and tastes perfectly of love. “I'm sorry for what I did- the way I acted there.”

 

He's speaking indirectly- he's still afraid of what happened at the club. Guilt heats his cheeks; Aster shakes his head, effectively silencing Jack's mortified apologies. “What happened there was my fault. I'm the one who reacted the wrong way.”

 

Jack opens his mouth to say something and Aster laughs, dipping in to leave a tiny kiss on his mouth. It feels like such a natural thing to do now; Jack's eyes resemble something close to stars every time he does it. “No more apologies.” He tells the youth. “We're done with that now, alright?”

 

“Alright.” He says, and squeezes Aster's hand.

 

-

 

“Easy now... slowly- I said slowly, crikey!”

 

Jack recoils from the kitchen counter, jumping for the roll of paper towels as his glass rolls to the side, spilling what's left of his merrily fizzing root beer float. The soda bottle, now empty, rolls forlornly away from the scene. Balanced carefully on a stool at the counter, thankfully angled away from the mess, Aster roars with laughter.

 

“Jumpy little monkey.” He teases as Jack begins to sop up the mess. He rinses the paper towels in the sink and swipes over the sticky mess, hoping to god he's cleaned well enough to not attract any ants into the apartment.

 

“Maybe if you hadn't been trying to kiss my neck again I wouldn't have dropped it.” Jack retorts, dumping the soggy napkins into the wastebasket and grinning up at Aster, perching skinny elbows on the counter's cleaned edge.

 

Aster shakes his head mock seriously, and Jack notices a little wince as he slides off his stool, root-beer float in hand. “It's not my fault I want to snog you senseless, Frost.”

 

He moves towards his studio, glancing casually back at Jack with a raised eyebrow, pushing the doors open without looking. “C'mon. We can share this.”

 

And Jack, who'd been looking wistfully down at the empty glass he'd been putting away in the sink to wash, brightens, washing his hands and following after the Australian.

 

They find two clean straws somewhere in the mess of Aster's cupboards and settle down for a shared sip. Like two lovestruck teens in a '50s greaser movie, they hunker down into the comfort of his old studio sofa and snuggle close together, sipping at their respective straws, giggling at how their noses occasionally nuzzle together. Finishing the drink in record time, Aster sets the glass on the coffee table and wraps his arms around Jack.

 

After his release from the hospital late yesterday, Aster's been touching Jack every chance he gets. He brushes a strand of hair from his eye or wipes a smudge of peanut butter from his lips, strokes a thumb over the back of his hand.

 

He's been silently worrying over what he is going to do all day and it is bothering him, because all he wants to do now is be with Jack and enjoy his company and memorize the way he laughs.

 

Jack notices the worry in his face. Frowning a little, he takes the Australian's hand in his and squeezes gently. “Something on your mind?”

 

Aster shakes his head. He can't tell Jack, not yet. He's not ready. “Just the heat.” He lies, making a show of fanning his neck and pulling at his collar. There are still thin bandages on his body, gauze taped to his leg where the words were cut in and to the thin stab on his side. It hurts to move, but not as much as it did before.

 

They could turn the A/C on but that requires getting up, and in this heat they are perfectly comfortable with just sitting very still and very close. Aster feels a little woozy, but that doesn't stop him from staring appreciatively at Jack's figure, his head swimming lightly as the youth hops up and goes skidding into the kitchen, returning with two freezer pops. He hands the pink one to Aster, lips already curled in a pleased smile over the opened ridge of his blue one.

 

“We should write a letter to the company that makes these and see if they'll send us a pack of just blueberry flavored ones.” Jack says, settling back into Aster's side.

 

His hand finds Aster's easily in the midst of their tangled limbs.

 

They are still shy about it; they touch, but tentatively, their kisses are small, quick. It seems that without the hospital's stark white walls and the bright bright sun warming them, they are a little less bold. It's something that will lessen with time, but Aster wonders if his palms will ever cease that giddy tingling whenever they brush across any part of Jack.

 

Content and cooled by the flavored ice melting on his tongue, he forgets about Pitch and focuses on watching Jack, his smile never quite leaving his lips.

 

When Jack catches sight of himself in the reflection of a full-body mirror Aster has propped up nearby, he throws his head back in glee and laughs.

 

Thanks to his freezer pop, his lips and tongue have been left startlingly blue, even his teeth. Aster loses it for the second time today: he laughs loud enough that there is an annoyed thumping on the wall to his right- probably North trying to sleep in next door.

 

Aster's own tongue isn't as noticeably dyed, but there is an alarming brightness to the pink of it- his flavor had been strawberry.

 

He decides then that the sweet, high ring of Jack's infectious laughter is his favorite sound in the world.

 

Easing back into regular breaths and scrambling to to lick up the melting chunks of their pops, they turn their attentions to each other. Jack, still smiling in amusement at his reflection, shifts on the sofa, resting his head against Aster's shoulder and mumbling out a question about when can they go to the beach again.

 

That's when Aster knows he can't get rid of Jack if it kills him. He's known it before- for _months_ now, but never with such clarity. He can't go through with Pitch's orders if it means leaving Jack, decieving him and making him think he's worthless and not wanted. He could never do that, not again. Not ever.

 

Now, he has five days to figure out what he is going to do.

 

-

 

They sleep in Aster's bed that night.

 

After he's taken some medication and checked on his bandages, they settle into his sheets. Having left the hospital the night before, they'd each shyly gone to sleep in their own rooms, each so weary and dull from lack of sleep that they figured the past two days there had been a dream.

 

Neither of them will have that, now.

 

Beneath his covers, Jack is warmer than he has ever felt him. His arms, long and skinny, are clutched around Aster like he is a pillow, cheek squished against his chest.

 

There are so many things to be addicted to, in Jack. Aster would count them all if they weren't so goddamn heady, numbing his senses and making his eyes roll into the back of his head as they touch and kiss, hold and squeeze.

 

He loves the way Jack smells when he hasn't showered in a while. Sweaty in the hot apartment heat and musky-skinned, sweet where his lips end and salty where his neck begins. This taste, this skin those eyes that hair this boy is all for him, and Aster wouldn't give that up for the world. He kisses Jack for the thousandth time in the fifth hour of the day and feels his heart sew itself together only to burst apart at the seams again when he sees Jack's brilliant little smile.

 

They stay like this for a long time. They don't even try sleeping- the darkness in the room lifts with each hour and then there is weak sunlight, and neither of the two has closed their eyes. It is almost a sacred experience for Aster; feeling Jack's breaths on his skin, his soft skin and the pulse of his heart under his thumbs. It is astonishing, to hold another being in his arms and know that out of billions, he has fallen for this perfect one, that out of billions of others they are on this very same wavelength, so in tune they do not need to speak at all. 

 

But they do anyway.

 

“I love you.” He tells Jack, because he can't get over the way every time he says it Jack's eyes light up like clouds have lifted from the sky of his mind.

 

Jack ducks against his chest to hide flushed, overjoyed cheeks. “Say it again.” He whispers selfishly, but the way his eyelashes flutter against Aster's chest, a kiss all on their own, is embarrassed.

 

Aster's heart bursts again, flies back together and stitches itself neatly when his lips skim Jack's temple, slide down gently to his cheek and then sip at thin lips. “I love you.” He promises, confesses and declares. He cups Jack's cheeks, savoring the coolness of his skin before it heats underneath his palms. “I love you so much I could shout it to the world, Jack Frost.”

 

Jack giggles, squeezing his eyes shut as Aster drops gentle kisses on his eyelids, looks up starry-eyed when he pulls away. It's a look of hope, so pure and unadulterated and beautiful that it makes Aster want to weep. He does, a little, as Jack frames his hips with his hands, pulls Aster down onto his side so they can lie close together in the daylight where shadows are mere myths and the most important things in the world are their hearts in their hands, open at the palms at first and then slowly melding together like mist to an open air.

 

He whispers the same words back into Aster's shoulder daringly, as though awe-struck at his gall. He clears his throat, eyes widening slowly as they dart to meet Aster's gaze.

 

“I love you, Aster.” Jack says, and Aster's heart shivers and erupts.

 


End file.
